


when i see it through your eyes (it's alive)

by fouryearslater (CheshireCatLife)



Series: My SteveBucky Mixtape [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chaos, Frustration, M/M, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Telepathic Bond, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:08:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshireCatLife/pseuds/fouryearslater
Summary: Telepathy would be great, they said. Fun, they said. Wouldn't that just be sofascinating.Well, they were allwrong.[Durban Skies - Bastille]
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: My SteveBucky Mixtape [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691632
Comments: 18
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little note for ease of reading: speech marks mean they're speaking aloud, quotation marks mean speaking inside their heads and italicisation is the other person speaking inside their head. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy!  
> (Comments are my fuel and absolutely any feedback, good or bad, is welcome)

A lot of odd things happened in the future. Aliens, for one, which had quickly topped Steve’s list of insanely ludicrous events he’d witnessed. But this…this was an all-new low. At this rate, he would claim they were just making this up. Sometimes, he wondered whether he was still in the ice and this was just one unreasonably long dream where his body tried to compute that it was still alive and frozen. Unlikely, but possible. And the only other idea that he’d had was that it was another one of Stark’s unfunny pranks.

Although, even he had to admit that a voice in his head probably wasn’t in the realms of Tony Stark’s power. After the whole aliens-thing, becoming an Avenger and acclimatising to modern life, he’d pretty much grasped the limits of future technology, and even more so Tony’s. You could find nearly anything at the tap of a button, could clean your house in half the time and have hot running water. But you couldn’t have a flying car, or a sophisticated robot or a perfected prosthetic limb. Tony Stark could get around a lot of that, but he definitely hadn’t invented telepathy. Steve would definitely have found out about it by now.

So, on the cusp of the Summer of 2012, when he heard a voice in his head, he made the obvious assumption: he’d gone insane.

It started in the morning, a distant static in the back of his head, like the fizzle of electricity. He ignored it, as he ignored the perpetual whine of electricity that now stained the sound of everyday life, following him everywhere he went. And instead, he followed his usual routine: ate, ran, showered, then-

Well, sometimes he’d try to get his sketchbook out, but he usually tucked that away just as quickly. He usually just put the TV on, wincing at the sounds of the fans that seemed too loud to his over-sensitive ears. He could have probably asked Tony to fix it, but he didn’t want to admit just how much it annoyed him. Knowing Tony, he’d wake up to find himself surrounded by fans with a comment about being ‘used to the cold’.

Today was no different. He got up, threw on some running gear and took off down the streets, his feet pounding down the pavement, the hubbub loud but familiar. He tried to keep up the speed; if he went fast enough, no one seemed to recognise him. Or, if they did, they were clever enough not to try and stop him. That was a new thing, too. In the future. The autographs, the pictures, the questions. Not that it didn’t happen back in his time but not for him. He was a soldier as well as a symbol, and despite his current position as…well, super-soldier-for-hire and Avenger, people no longer seemed to see him as a soldier. He was the face of America, the symbol of freedom and hope and all the things he had cared about and now found himself wondering whether it mattered. The world had changed a lot, for better or worse. He didn’t know whether they needed hope, without the threat of war on their doorstep. Or whether freedom was worth fighting for when it seemed they had so much and so little at the same time.

No, that wasn’t right. Only at his most depraved did those thoughts feel closer to the truth; at times when he felt like he couldn’t get out bed, huddled underneath the covers like a hibernating animal, plagued with wicked thoughts.

It was more that he didn’t know if he was the person to fight for it. He couldn’t make the same arguments about a world he hardly understood. He’d barely lived in it, for God’s sake. It was like telling Thor that he should rule Asgard with no knowledge of the political system, just an egotistical headset that said he could lead anyone. 

He did a few laps of the routes around Stark Tower and got back in time for a late breakfast. The whine was louder now, but still distant, like someone had left a TV on a few doors down. As usual, he ignored it and made himself a pile of toast and bacon, dumping it on a plate and eating it before he even had to time to register the taste. It was awful anyway, so why bother.

He took a shower, got changed into ‘modern attire’ before choosing comfort instead and shoving on a white wife beater and some plain, beige pants before he took his place on the sofa. The apartment Stark had given him was sprawling, bigger than anyone could ever need, especially with just him inside. All the Avengers had their apartments, taking up the top few floors of the Tower. Tony had the entire top floor, the penthouse, which Steve had yet to see. Underneath him were Natasha and Clint’s, opposite each other but with how much they lived out of each other’s pockets, was pretty much one apartment.

Underneath them was Bruce and Steve’s floor, Steve on the left and Bruce on the right of the elevator. Steve had never seen Bruce’s apartment but had assumed it was a mirror of his, with its large kitchen with a huge island to sit at, all done in shades of white and grey, each appliance a sleek chrome whilst the counters were most definitely the most expensive granite on the market. The kitchen was in the same space as the living room but they were split by a small decline, just two steps down. The living room took its spot in the little dugout area, just beside the large array of windows, spanning the entire wall and shining an irritating glare onto the TV. Again, Steve probably should have brought it up with Tony but he wasn’t actually watching anything interesting enough to care. Behind the sofa was an open corridor, in the same shade of white as everything else (bar the beige sofa and black TV), with two doors on the right and another on the left. The right led to the bathroom and the guest suite whilst the left was the master bedroom, an empty blue space that Steve had painted in desperation to make it his own before subsequently giving up, leaving it with its blank walls and dark, hardwood flooring.

The apartment, to be frank, was an unsettling reflection of his life: endless, bland and empty.

Sighing, he settled down on the sofa, trying to put his thoughts into a positive light, grabbing the remote to switch to the first channel he found before lying back and letting his thoughts wander. Which meant he heard it, with perfect clarity, when the voice replaced the static. Loudly. It started with a scream, puncturing every junction of Steve’s mind. Primal, desperate and agonising. The scream was worse than Steve could have ever made up, and it didn’t stop. The buzzing was louder now too, like it had perforated his head and filled the gaps the screaming didn’t reach.

Steve clutched his head, bringing his knees up to his body and rocked, desperately wishing the pain away. It was wrong; not like real pain. It was the memory of pain, the desperate wish to turn your mind away so you wouldn’t remember how the bone had snapped or the bullet pierced or the head cracked. It went on. Bursts of electricity burning the very inside of his mind.

Six minutes later, it stopped. Silence. Ringing emptiness, broken only by a whimper and a lost voice calling: _I- what-._ It stopped, paused, before Steve once again heard the voice, it’s voice dead. _Ready to comply._

Steve let out a breath, dropping his legs down to the floor, slowly letting go of his head. His chest was heaving, his forehead sweaty and his heart erratic. Something was wrong but he was too tired to even figure it out. It was like his mind had been scorched and his logic erased, leaving only the base reactions of a confused and scared man.

Silence.

Then a thought.

“Um,” Steve said aloud, before stopping. “Wait, are you speaking Russian?”

 _Yes_ , Steve heard, in perfect English. The dissonance was almost painful. He heard the Russian, he knew it was Russian, not by accent but by the words themselves, yet he understood them in perfect English, like his subconscious brain was processing differently to his conscious mind.

 _Are you a new handler?_ It asked, its voice still painfully distant. Like it wasn’t quite present. Like whatever was talking to him wasn’t quite…human.

“No. I’m…Steve. My name is Steve.”

_I do not have a name. I am the Asset._

“The Asset? Who…who calls you,” Steve swallowed, trying to flush away the uncomfortable sensation in his throat, “the Asset?”

_My handlers. My doctors._

Okay, so this guy was insane. That must have been it. Someone in an asylum, or whatever the modern equivalent was. Someone who needed to be watched and needed medication.

But that didn’t explain why Steve was hearing it in his head. Was this what a hallucination was? Or…

_Your mind is loud._

“Shit. You can…okay, so you can hear me. All the time. But I can’t hear you.”

_You can hear me. I just don’t think as much as you._

“Everyone thinks. You can’t just turn off your thoughts.”

_I can. They trained me to._

Whatever this asylum was, Steve wasn’t sure it was taking the right approach. This man appeared more robot than human. No matter the illness, Steve didn’t believe anybody deserved to be torn down to become something less than human. Steve knew people were treated better than that nowadays, he’d read about it. He’d been thrown down the rabbit hole of the LGBT rights Wikipedia page when he’d stumbled across the progress made from ‘treating’ gay men to giving them the rights to marry.

 _I am not in an asylum. I am the Asset. I do not need to be in-_ Whatever the man had been trying to project was cut off by something that sounded almost like an alarm. A pain response, Steve realised, sharp and strong, and whilst Steve didn’t feel the pain entirely, the fear flying through his man’s head was enough to make him want to curl up like a child and escape the horrors of the outside world.

He didn’t. He sat up, trying to tune into this…insanity.

_You must stop distracting me. They say you are against protocol. They want to know who you are._

“Don’t tell them my name!" Steve suddenly shouted, the urgency like a gunshot shooting through - what was it? They’re bond? Steve’s goddamn hallucination? “Or even that I exist, probably. God, this is insane.”

 _I will not. I do not-_ The voice cut off and for the first time since Steve heard those first two words, there was a hint of emotion in the man’s voice. Fear. Painful, atavistic fear.

“Don’t what?” Steve asked, his voice almost a whisper. He didn’t know why but it felt appropriate, as if it was the cautious way to enter this man’s mind. Or…you know, reply to himself.

Oh, who was he kidding, this felt real and he was letting it be real. In an hour, he could shout at himself for being so stupid as to let himself hope that he wasn’t a freak.

_I don’t want to be punished. You need to leave, you are distracting me._

“I- I can’t. Just, don’t listen to me. If it’s dangerous, try to block me out. I’ll try and be quiet.”

The silence lasted just a little too long before a soft voice replied, _thank you._

Unsure what to do with that, Steve grabbed the remote again and flipped through the menu until he got to the radio channels. Scrolling through, he finally found the one he was looking for: a classical channel that no one spoke over. He liked to listen to it when he wanted his brain to shut up.

So now he’d shut it up for someone else.

He tried desperately not to think about what was happening, to try and strategise plans and outcomes. Instead, he listened to the notes and only the notes, following them, even humming them aloud. He let it flood over him until all his other sense didn’t exist. It was just the music, soft and melodic, each note burning away the dangerous thoughts that threatened him.

He remained like that for an hour, wiling away the time until the voice returned. _My handlers are gone. You can stop now._

“I don’t mind. Do you like the music?” Steve found himself asking without thinking.

 _It was nice. Calming. I-_ Silence reigned for a minute. _This has never happened before._

“It hasn’t happened to me either. Do you…well, you’re in my head, I think you know that I don’t really know if this is real. Is there…can you prove you’re real?” Only once he’d said it did Steve truly understand what it meant to be in someone else’s head. Although the other man - the Asset - was right, he didn’t have many thoughts, Steve was still distinctly aware of the blankness in his mind, and the thoughts that perforated through. The confusion, the fear, the longing. Some emotions that Steve couldn’t even begin to comprehend, all tangled up into a knot and tucked away behind layers of black.

 _They call me a ghost. I am not sure I’m real._ Steve felt the truth of it and shuddered. Something was wrong here: really wrong.

“Who are they?” Steve still spoke aloud; it made it easier to keep the conversation real, and not muddled entirely by the other things trying to muddy both of their minds.

_My handlers._

“Do you know who they are?”

 _One…my main handler, he’s…_ something suddenly slipped into place and Steve knew it wasn’t in his own mind. Like an iron door slamming down on the Asset’s mind, Steve was left in darkness apart from a blank voice recalling: _Caucasian male, American with blue eyes and blonde hair. Most likely in his late 70s. Wears a suit, suggesting respectability._ A pause; the iron door creaked. _I do not know a name._

“That’s okay. We can…we can figure it out.” Steve was sure that the Asset - God, there must be a better name than that - could hear exactly how sure he was about that, but it felt like the right thing to say anyway.

_You can call me the Asset._

“I-,”

 _It makes you uncomfortable._ There was true curiosity in the voice, and maybe even surprise at being able to formulate such emotions. _This isn’t how things usually happen,_ the voice clarifies. _I am usually…blank. But now you are here, I feel things._

“Wow. Okay. Well, that’s good. I think.”

_I think it is too._

“So, you got any other name apart from the Asset?”

_I don’t think so._

“Could…I…give you a name?” The hesitancy felt pointless but it was instilled in him, as all manners were. But manners didn’t mean much when you could read each other’s minds, and when the other guy hadn’t shown that the same manners were instilled in him at all.

_Yes._

“How about…” Names flickered through his head but none caught his attention but-

_I like James._

“Oh that’s-.” There was something dark in Steve that wanted to say no, that it was Bucky’s name. That no one deserved to have his name. But, realistically, plenty of people were called James. And, maybe, it was fitting that the man in his head had Bucky’s name. “That’s okay, I guess.”

_It makes you uncomfortable too. This man, James, you miss him._

“I do. A lot.”

 _Okay._ Not exactly the response most people would give, but maybe that’s exactly what made Steve smile. _Can I still be called James?_ And how was Steve supposed to say no to that when it was the first question this man, James, had even dared posed? How was he supposed to say no when he felt the longing, the desperation, the relief at not being their weapon?

“Whose weapon?”

_I- I’m not sure. I’m not supposed to remember. They- they punish me when I remember._

“Then don’t tell them.”

_That is against protocol._

“So is talking to me but here we are.”

Steve could feel the smile. _I guess so. I must go, I am about to go on a mission._

“Where are you-,” but that iron door had creaked shut. It wasn’t impenetrable, nor was Steve sure that it was really a barrier but something stopped Steve from going near it. Something akin to fear.

So, with his teeth fiddling with his bottom lip, he decided to get off the couch and do something; something better than being trapped in his own thoughts, faced with the looming mass that was this new presence. And away from thoughts of insanity, fear, and the thought that maybe he should talk to someone about this.

He didn’t.

He got about his day, doing far more than he usually would. It was a sunny day out, so he brought his sketchbook to the park and ended up with an indistinct picture of what James might look like. He got nothing. It would appear, upon some dangerous scourging around the edges of James’ conscience, that he didn’t know either.

Steve’s heart pounded louder.

Ignoring it until he could get an answer from the man himself, he shut the book and headed back to the Tower, where he went to the gym for a while before lingering around the common room, looking for some company.

Unfortunately, company came in the form of Tony Stark, followed closely by Natasha Romanoff. “Gary Cooper!” Tony declared as he approached, his arms outspread.

“You’re just looking for any 40s reference you can find,” Steve sighed, deciding not to continue the argument about how he’d barely even lived in the 40s and most of his cultural knowledge was from the 20s and 30s.

“He has blue eyes,” Tony said with a shrug.

“Not very blonde hair though,” Natasha contributed. Steve decided not to let the argument continue and remained silent. “So, what are you doing around here, Cap?” One day he was going to mention how much he hated that nickname.

“Just looking for some company. You guys doing anything interesting?”

“Not anymore,” Natasha announced, jumping over the back of the sofa to sit beside him, all in one graceful move that he was slightly jealous of.

“Guess I could hang around for a bit,” Tony sighed, though there was a small smile on his face. For all that the Avengers were a ‘team’, they rarely saw each other. Tony, likely, was becoming lonely. Steve wasn’t sure what to do with his awareness of that. “I’ll get the others.” Soon enough, Bruce and Clint had made their appearances. Thor was still off-planet, leaving the guest floor empty; Steve found himself missing the guy, there was something nice about having someone even less aware of culture than you were. If a bit cruel.

Steve, as he always did, remained quiet for the most part, decisively not mentioning the whole…hallucination/voice from this morning. He could still feel his presence, carefully blank but focused, like he was waiting for something. But it was nice to just be around other people, talking and laughing. The team, no matter how dysfunctional, did know how to have a good time, different strains of humour ingrained into all of them, from Steve and Bruce’s, usually hidden, dark humour to Tony’s sarcasm to Natasha’s predilection for bad puns and Clint’s downright ludicrous tales.

He was in the middle of one when the voice reappeared.

 _Are these your friends?_ Steve blanched, his hand shifting awkwardly on his knee hoping no one would notice his sudden jolt. ‘How do you…can you see them?’ He tried to project, focusing hard on the words.

_No, but I see your memories of them._

‘I don’t see any of your memories.’

_I have none._

Before he could begin to pick that apart, he was brought out of his reverie by a hand frantically waving in front of his face. “Steve?”

_They will put me away for a while now. I will not be able to contact you._

Steve, muddled, said aloud, “why not?”

“Um…okay? Um…did that make sense to anyone else?” Tony asked the room, eyebrows raised.

“I’m sorry. I meant yes. Yes, yeah…”

“Okay,” Tony said, dragging out the ‘a’ for an unnecessary amount of time.

_They have put me away. Goodbye...Steve._

“Shit,” Steve breathed and all of a sudden there was ice crawling up him, grasping at him with cold fingers, prying him open, taking him apart, throwing him into darkness, just like the jolt of a plain.

“Did Steve just do a swear?” Tony gasped facetiously before his face fell. “Steve?” He called and quickly the others were huddled around him. “Steve,” he repeated, shaking Steve’s shoulder. But Steve was long gone, his mind somewhere outside of his body. He was…in a cage. With a window; small enough to see a man, plain. Not the man James had described earlier but a new one, wearing a medical coat. The ice was up to his waist now, coating him in frost. He could feel it, like they were making him into a statue and making him watch.

Memories ravaged his mind: a plane dipping into the artic, the freezing water rushing over him when hitting his head wasn’t enough to knock him out. The slow act of freezing and drowning at the same time, wondering which one would catch you first. How the ice had made him numb and the drowning made him panic. It was all-

It was-

Why-

By the time it was up to his torso, he attempted to reach out a hand (“Bruce, get out! Natasha, get a doctor now. JARVIS! Bring me the suit!”) before slamming it against the glass. But it wouldn’t move. It was freezing too, ice creeping up the…metal? It was in his throat now; he couldn’t breathe. It was clawing at him, taking every bit of him. He could feel it as it filled his mouth, flooded his brain and finally, everything went black.

And Steve opened his eyes.

“What-,”

“Everyone, stand back.” It was Tony speaking, his gauntlet held up to Steve, with Natasha and Clint standing behind him. It was almost ethereal, with the slowly descending sun appraising them in gold, their shadows engulfing Steve. He blinked, bringing his arm up to his face: flesh, not metal. Why did he think it was metal?

Why was he-

James.

Oh god.

He shut his eyes, brought his hand to his head and tried to think but James had been right, their communication has been snapped, like a wire cut. This wasn’t darkness, this was just nothing. Just his own mind, with swirling theories and a dangerous level of adrenaline.

“I-,” he tried again but his throat still felt cold, a phantom sensation that made his hand fly up to his neck. “What happened?”

“You lashed out.”

“I…I’m sorry, I- I have to go.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Tony rushed to say, putting his gauntlet down but using the suit to block Steve’s exits. “I want an explanation, pronto.”

“I just…I got caught in a memory.” Someone else’s, but he wasn’t going to point that out.

“Told you he needed therapy,” Clint whispered to Natasha, although it was perfectly clear to Steve’s ears. He assumed Clint wasn’t even trying to hide it.

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. Frankly, you went a little bit…well, just about every horror movie ever made.”

“I’m sorry. It was…that doesn’t usually happen.”

“But this happens a lot?” Natasha asked.

“No. I just mean, that’s never happened before.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“I just…I’m leaving,” Steve said stubbornly, pushing past Tony with as much strength as he could muster and getting into the elevator, hoping no one would follow him. They didn’t. He didn’t dare hope that they wouldn’t attack him later.

So much for being a team.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks for the comments on the last chapter! They really are what fuels this whole system. Hope you enjoy this chapter, it's one of my favourites :D

The sun beat relentlessly down on his back, the teeming crowds swallowing him whole. It was at times like this that he could breathe the most, wrapped in the anonymity. It was what had caused him to make the shift from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Brooklyn was familiar, a community, even if things weren’t like that anymore. Manhattan was something else; a place where as many people came as left, the turnover so high that it quelled his own fear of loss. When everyone was fated to leave, it didn’t hurt so much when they did.

Bryant Park was small but full, the summer sun drawing out previously reluctant crowds. Tourists and locals alike sat at the over-priced restaurants, chatting inanely. Steve, unlike most of the people in the crowd, was alone.

It had been three months, enough time to try and forget the ‘incident’ had ever even happened if it wasn’t brought up relentlessly by his endlessly curious teammates.

He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to think about the ice cutting him open, digging into every capillary until he was lost in the agony. He didn’t want to remember the blankness afterwards, the sudden awareness that someone really had been there, and that someone had gone.

Instead, he built himself a castle, hiding behind the reinforced fort in degrading loneliness. Having JARVIS meant he could lock anyone he wanted out, although Tony - with enough effort - could probably bypass JARVIS’ protocols. So far, he hadn’t.

Steve sipped lazily at his coffee, watching a few people rush off to their morning duties. He mourned the regular schedule of work he had back in the day, even if having work itself was sporadic. Being ‘on-call’ was just an endless span of boredom, punctuated by painful missions that left him feeling too far outside his body.

He didn’t like to think about that.

_Steve?_

“James,” Steve gasped, drawing more than a few stares his way. Frantically, he brought his phone up to his ear, eyes darting warily through the onlookers.

_I’m back._ His voice was…open, less blank. His mind, still dark, was soft at the edges: Steve would almost say malleable.

“You are.” Steve huffed a laugh. “I was beginning to think it wasn’t real, you know.”

_I am real._

“I’m getting that. You’re…different, this time.”

_Am I?_

“Yeah, you’re…I’m not sure, less blank.”

_I am?_ There was cautious hope in that voice, sided by a flickering of the light. A memory. It was… _Steve?_ The voice was suddenly garbled, swathed in panic and fear. Steve tried to reach in but he was being pushed away, the previously soft edges like sharpened blades. He only saw a glimpse: a memory of gold hair, blue eyes…a small smile, delicate hands…

_He…that’s…_

“What’s happening?”

_They’ve put me in the chair._ More flashes came, blinding Steve. They started as specks, like a dot of gunpowder before the fuse was lit and everything exploded. _They’ve…_ Panic and fear distorted whatever Steve could find. He could barely make out shapes: a forest, a woman with brown hair and blue eyes, a man…the same one, with the fair hair and light eyes. _Steve…”_ the voice whispered, so softly Steve almost didn’t hear it. Broken. Cracking.

“James, what’s happening?”

_The memories. They…they have me in the chair. God, Steve, get me out-_

“I don’t get it. What’s happening? James. James!”

_Steve, oh god. I’m so sorry. Steve, help me. Help me, please, they’re going to make me forget you again-_

Screaming.

Agonising, wrenching screams, tearing him at the seams until he was nothing more than threads on the floor. Steve was sure he was screaming himself. Their pain was one. Unlike the last time, it was stronger now. James’ mind was his own; their sensations shared.

People were scattering; maybe they recognised him, maybe they didn’t but they ran like a maniac had taken to the streets. Maybe one had. Steve was distinctly aware of both worlds, his own and James’. The metal on his head, the pounding of electricity; the crowds, the shouting.

He clutched his head, trying to claw the pain away, ripping shreds of hair as he did. Screaming, over and over and over until-

Gone. Nothing. James was still there but…empty. Any shared sensation was lost, replaced by the numb static he’d felt last time. Steve collapsed, heaving in breaths as his hands loosely fell to his sides, strands of hair still locked around his fingers.

_Ready to comply._

‘What was that?” Steve projected, feeling vomit rise in his throat, forcefully pushed down by his reluctant throat muscles.

_What was what?_

’The chair. What goddamn thing is that?’

_It makes me into a soldier. So I can complete my missions. Make a world a better place._

‘I-,’ Steve gasped but before he could begin to pick apart that statement, the familiar red and gold of Tony’s Iron Man suit slammed down onto the pavement beside him.

“I thought we were done with this, Cap.”

“I- It wasn’t…” He stopped, took stock of the situation and sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“We’re getting you a therapist. After the press conference, because you’re gonna have to have a real good excuse for this one, Cap.”

Steve didn’t have a response to that. Instead, he clambered to his feet and grudgingly followed Tony back to the tower, shamefully letting people’s stares puncture his flimsy veneer of self-control. His body didn’t feel like his own. It was like someone had gotten a shovel and dug straight into him, leaving a gaping hole in his chest.

This was worse than the time Tony dragged him back from the bar fight, bruised and bloodied like he was 5’4 again. He hadn’t even hit the other guy, only shoved him around a bit, but the guy seemed to think it was a point of pride getting in a few good punches on Captain America.

Everyone was waiting for him when he got back, just as James was. It had been a constant stream of mission and status reports, as if James was a sentient machine, pointing out each flaw with unnerving disassociation. Steve ignored it, slamming down his own flimsy barriers, ignoring the pang of fear coming from the other side of the connection. It was worse in reality, where the silence consumed the room, each little movement a scream.

“What the hell is going on, Steve?” Natasha asked, her eyes narrowed, examining him for signs of…well, something. Anything that would explain a super-soldier writhing on the floor for over five minutes, desperately tugging out clumps of his hair.

“You wouldn’t believe me,” he said, in lieu of a proper answer.

“We fought aliens together, Cap, I’m sure it can’t be that outlandish,” Tony said, finally stepping out of his Iron Man suit.

“You’d be surprised.”

“Come on, just tell us or else we’re gonna have to the really awkward thing here and lock you up in a Hulk cage and monitor the next…episode.”

_Are you ill?_

“No,” he replied to both of them. “I just…I’ll be fine.”

“You said that last time,” Clint pointed out. He was perched on the edge of the sofa, staring out the window, his hearing aid on full display. If Steve didn’t know better, he’d think Clint was disinterested but he knew what Clint looked like when he was trying to think.

“I know. I was just caught off guard.”

“You were screaming on the floor. You’re missing half your hair. And you did it in public. Honestly, I would have thought the idea of having to do a press conference would have stopped you,” Natasha said, arms folded.

“As I said, I was caught off guard.”

“That’s not being caught off guard. That looked like you were being tortured.”

_What happened? I don’t understand. Do you need protection?_

“No,” he reiterated. He turned to Tony. “I was fine.”

“For God’s sake, you were not fine!” Tony complained loudly, flinging his arms in the air. “Could you, for once, just be honest with us.”

“I’m always honest.” As much as Tony was, anyway.

“Nice try, Cap. But no, you’re really not. But seriously, I know you don’t think this but we are friends as much as we are a team. I don’t want to lock you up Hannibal Lecter style, but if you don’t tell us what the hell is going on, I will _have_ to.”

Steve tried to breathe, surprised when it came as a struggle before letting out a ragged, anxious sigh. “Can we not do this now? Give me an hour and I’ll tell you everything.”

“Thing is, last time I would have said yes but seeing as it’s been _three months_ and you haven’t told us a thing, I’m inclined to say no.”

_I do not like him. He doesn’t understand you._

“Well, he’s not in my head.” Steve ran his palms down his face before it hit him. He’d said that aloud, hadn’t he?

“Who’s in your head, Steve?” Natasha asked warily, looking torn between stepping closer and stepping away.

“No one,” he said defensively. He didn’t think a stranger would believe that performance.

“Okay, so someone’s in your mind. A…hallucination?”

“He’s real.” Just as defensive; god, he really did sound insane.

_They don’t believe you._

Steve shut his eyes. ‘You think I don’t know that?’

“Are you…are you _talking_ to them?!” Tony shouted incredulously.

“Yes?”

“Who are they?” Natasha interrogated, finally taking a step towards him.

“I call him James. He said he doesn’t have a name. Just…the Asset.”

_I know her._

“And he knows you,” Steve added, eyes wide and stuck on Natasha.

“Is it, does he have a-,”

“Metal arm? I think so.”

“What is going on here?” Tony muttered but he barely noticeable, not whilst Natasha was staring at him like he had the power to tear her apart. Or maybe like she was just about to kill him herself.

“The Winter Soldier is a ghost story.”

_They want it that way. Natalia Alianovna Romanova._

“Oh God. I’m just…going to tell you what he’s saying.” Natasha didn’t reply.

_I don’t know what else to say. I don’t…the memories, they’re fuzzy. I can’t…_

‘How do you know her?’

_Natalia Alianovna Romanova, born 1928. Black Widow, top of her class. I trained her personally. She was one of three to complete the full Black Widow course in 1959._ Steve recited his words verbatim, almost choking on his own tongue at the year. He looked up, wondering whether Natasha would ask him to stop; she didn’t. She stared at him, green eyes showing the first weakness Steve had ever seen in them. If he looked carefully, there may have even been tears. Then, James continued, another flash screaming in Steve’s mind. _I…I remember, she was my маленький паук. She was like a daughter. Then they took me away. I forgot her._ Steve continued to speak but was overwhelmed by the sudden grief of the words. He choked them out anyway, feeling tears in his own eyes, flashing images moving too quickly to grasp but just long enough to feel the pain, the sadness, the fear, the love.

“It’s him,” Natasha whispered. “The Soldier.”

“1928?!” Tony screeched in the background; no one listened to him. Clint didn’t react at all. Bruce, whilst shocked, remained quiet.

“I don’t know why it’s suddenly happening now. It’s only sometimes.”

“What just happened, were you in the chair?” He nodded. She swallowed, looking green around the edges. “He shouldn’t be remembering. The chair makes you…blank. But he’s already remembering me. Because of you.”

_Memories require punishment._

‘Don’t tell them,’ Steve thought, ‘we need to solve this and for that, you need to remember whatever you can.’

“Could this be an experiment gone wrong? He’s enhanced too; something is likely connecting you two,” Bruce theorised.

“I heard him for the first time 3 months ago. There had been nothing before that.”

“Well, you were in the ice and he was...” Natasha stopped, thinking, like she was trying to conjure up her own memories. “He used to disappear for months on end. They’d bring him out every few months, he’d train us, do a mission and then go away again. We never figured out what happened to him-.”

_Cryofreeze._

“Cryofreeze,” Steve repeated, “he says Cryofreeze.” Steve gasped, the realisation striking him like a bullet. “The ice. That’s what happened last time. I was in a box and I was freezing but I felt it. And I thought I was back in 1945 again.”

“They’re freezing him, like you were frozen,” Natasha deduced. “Whatever enhancements he has must make it possible. I always thought he didn’t age because, well, look at me, but it wouldn’t be a leap to say it’s a situation similar to yours.”

“Why didn’t you tell us before?” Steve asked.

Natasha shot him a dirty look. “I think I’m allowed some secrets, aren’t I?” She said pointedly, raising an eyebrow at Steve. He backed down quickly; he didn’t _want_ to be a hypocrite.

“So you can feel what he feels?” Bruce asked, wringing his hands together.

“Sometimes. Not so much after the chair. Today, before it happened, he was remembering. I couldn’t see much. A few vague silhouettes, one landscape. A forest.”

_I am being placed on a mission now._

“Where?” Steve asked before sheepishly raising his head and adding, “sorry”. He needed to get better at not talking aloud. But he’d always been a mutterer. Buck used to sit behind him and tease him as he drew, repeating all the little things Steve was saying. He used to say his process aloud but he’d cut it down when Bucky’s teasing bordered bullying. Bucky quickly stopped after that and Steve had gone back to muttering about what kind of shading he needed to do in the foreground vs the background.

_I am not sure. They do not tell me where._ A pause. _Was that the other James?_

Steve looked up at the room, who had all taken to their pairs to discuss the madness. Natasha and Clint were whispering under their breath whilst Tony and Bruce hypothesised with varying degrees of volume. Glad that he wasn’t the centre of attention anymore, Steve focused back on James.

'Yes. I used to live with him.’

_I recognise him._

‘What? But that’s…’ But nothing was impossible any more, was it? ‘I guess you could have fought in the War. Maybe you met him.’

_That does not seem likely._

‘Guess not, but I can’t think of another reason you’d know him. He…he died in 1944.”

_Yes. You said before._

‘Yeah, guess I did.’ Steve sighed aloud, raking a hand through his hair. ‘Are there not any clues as to where you might be right now?’

_I won’t know until I’m out of the van. Then I will be able to tell the language._

‘Does the van have windows?’

_Yes. I will be punished if I look out of them. Windows bring back memories._

‘Can you catch anything? Even a glimpse.’

_There's forest. We are on a straight road._

‘Okay. I’m going to talk to everyone else. Keep an eye out. We need to figure this out.’

_I will try and help._ Steve was surprised to see James’ reasoning, the suggestions of ‘handler’ that seemed to surround Steve’s presence. For now, it was ignored; he had to address his teammates.

“Okay,” he said aloud, “James is looking out for markers of where he is.”

“And what are we going to do if he figures it out?”

“Find him. If they’re putting him in the chair, they’re the bad guys. They’re taking his memories.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Natasha asked, her voice somewhere torn between caution and the usual steady beat of her vernacular. The kind of voice that meant Natasha was reigning herself in; she was a lot more worried than she’d let on. It was almost impressive, Steve thought, that he could recognise that at all. But now wasn’t the time for out of place pride, he had a job to do, and he had to persuade his team to do it.

“Yes. I’m in his head, Nat. A lot of it may be blank now but I can tell what he’s thinking; if he’s gonna be a danger, I’ll know far before he is.”

_I won’t be._

“And I really don’t think he would be,” Steve tacked on, sending a little side-note to James that insinuated trust. It was the funny thing about minds; you didn’t actually need words. Thoughts had a language of their own, far more fluent that anything language could try and portray. It sure made things easier to convey. Even if it also meant that things slipped over a little bit too easily.

“Fine,” Natasha capitulated, “but you have to tell us if something goes AWOL. For all we know, Hydra has planted a bug in your brain and is sending you to them.”

“This would be a very elaborate trap.”

“It’s Hydra,” Tony pointed out with a shrug. “They’re known for plans so elaborate that they have a fairly low success record.” Steve had to give him that one, no matter how little he liked saying Tony was right.

“So if this is a trap, they won’t succeed.”

“You don’t need to persuade me, Rogers. One thing, though, if you could let me do a brain scan-,”

“Tony,” Steve warned.

“I think it would be helpful,” Bruce said, “just to find out what’s actually going on. And it might show if this is a real thing or not.”

“I’m not a lab rat,” Steve said, folding his arms defensively over his chest. His heart hammered. He’d been in hospital plenty of times; he got injured…a lot. But the thought of having to sit there and be subject to Tony and Bruce’s scientific fantasies wasn’t something he was particularly willing to do.

“Take it from a non-scientist,” Clint said, “you should do this. If it really is real, Hydra has done something pretty revolutionary. And if it isn’t real, we’re in trouble.”

“I-.” Steve sighed. “Fine. But you’re not taking blood work.” It was probably cruel to look a Bruce as he said it but if there was anyone desperate to get his blood, it was him. Bruce had failed his own experiments due to misunderstanding Steve’s bloodwork due to any lack of its existence, he didn’t want to hand it over now. Steve trusted his team with a lot but for some reason, that felt like a step too far.

Just as the scientists were looking chuffed with themselves, James’ voice returned. _The road sign was in Cyrillic. It could be Russia or any ex-USSR country. I did not get to read what it said._

‘Thanks. Narrowing it down will help us.’

“The signs are in Cyrillic,” Steve relayed.

“Ask him who he thinks his target is,” Natasha ordered, eyes narrowed.

_I have not been informed,_ James said before Steve even had to ask.

‘Any clues?’

_I will not be told. I will know only when I make the kill._

“Great,” Steve muttered under his breath, mussing his hair further as his hand pulled at the ragged strands. He felt a patch where it was far too thin and felt a thin blush rise to his cheeks.

“What?” Natasha asked.

“He doesn’t get told who his targets are. Not until he’s making the kill.”

“They don’t trust him. I was told my kills well in advance.”

“Well, they’re wiping his memory, that has to be for a reason.”

Natasha sighed. “I just don’t know if this is a good idea, Steve.”

“I can do this with or without you.”

“I know. That’s why I’m helping. Anyone ever tell you you’re stubborn?”

“On occasion,” he said with a shrug and a smile. “Now, how can we find him?”

~*~

They didn’t find him.

They knew that as soon as Steve’s eyes went distant, his limbs locked like he’d been tied up in ropes.

The look in his eyes made no one doubt that this was real.

They ran the tests anyway.

~*~

The press conference, done shortly after, was just as much of a disaster as they suspected.

But, apparently, news got old fast in this day and age and by the end of the week, no one remembered that Captain America had a breakdown in Bryant Park.

Steve had never been gladder for the attitudes of the 21st Century.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much shorter chapter today but it needs to be there to set up for the next one. I actually found this such a fun one to write; you might see why once you've read. 
> 
> Enjoy :)  
> (I'm grateful for all comments so far, feel free to keep throwing them at me!)

Another three months passed, ticking by with the same monotony of the rest of Steve’s life. Except this time he had a sense of a timer, like the clock wasn’t moving forwards but _towards_. He didn’t have any reason to believe there was a pattern, that the three months between the last two sightings in his mind had any valuable meaning, but in his heart he hoped. So when August turned into November and James still hadn’t returned, Steve was ragged, his edges torn and frayed. Prone to aggression as much as apathy, he spent more and more time in isolation, refusing the testing Tony was begging for and Bruce was obviously wheedling him into accepting. They had their proof; there was something other in Steve’s head, unexplored and alien, but they had enough scans now not to need him. Or so he would claim.

Clint tried to bring him out of his rut but had made no progress. Natasha did the same and was more successful in her attempts, if only in the way that Steve seemed to wake up a bit when she was around, only to fall straight back into his living coma when she left, proved by a surprisingly anxious sounding JARVIS. Thor came back and actually made Steve smile, before garnering himself similar treatment to the rest of them.

Until December came and all hope was alight again.

Except Steve was never lucky enough to have hope without pain.

_Steve?_

“Yeah, James, I’m here,” he said softly; it was early morning, the sun barely slipping over the horizon, his bedroom mostly trapped by shadows. He’d been awake for hours, lying on his back, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, mind wandering to foreign fields he didn’t let himself dwell on. The bone-deep exhaustion must have been loud, though, because James quickly asked _did I wake you?_

“No, you’re fine, pal.”

_I’m sorry I couldn’t come back sooner._

“Not your fault. You were in...”

_Cryofreeze,_ James clarified because, embarrassingly, Steve still struggled to even say the word.

“Yeah,” Steve breathed before heaving himself upwards, collapsing back onto the headboard with an almost injured sigh.

_I don’t have long before they put me back in._

“It’s okay.” It wasn’t.

_It’s not._

“You know, reading my mind can be really annoying.”

_You’re scared._

“Of course I am.”

_But not for yourself. You’re scared for me. Why?_

“They’re torturing you.”

_But you feel it too._

“I imagine not to the same degree you do.”

_I am trained to take it. You are not._

“Don’t think training means it hurts any less.”

_You’d be surprised,_ James said ominously, although he didn’t clarify. Steve could pick up other images - scenes, really, of similar torture that he barely felt anymore - but he couldn’t let himself watch them without fear of his stomach rebelling.

“How long do you have?”

_Another few minutes. They’re prepping the machine._

“You’re scared too.”

_I shouldn’t be. It’s just…I don’t want them to take away the memories. Or you. I know you’ll still be there but it’s different when I’m like this. It’s like there's something there. After the machine…it all goes. I only ever remember when I wake up._

Steve frowned. “You are different like this. Can I…I know you don’t…”

_You can. Then you can remember for me._

“How much do you think is there?”

_Not a lot. Cryofreeze slows my brain waves down. It means my mind doesn’t heal properly. But there’ll be something there._

They didn’t need words, Steve’s intentions were clear: go into James’ head, find whatever memories might have slowly come back during his time frozen and keep them for James whilst he was systematically tortured. Even the ones James wasn’t aware of, hidden under dark blankets and heavy curtains. They were there, they were both aware of that, but James didn’t dare to go looking at them.

Steve didn’t understand how life had come to this.

Then Steve remembered something. “Before I go in, I’ve been meaning to ask, do you know why this is happening? The-“

_Mind-meld? Not a clue. But maybe it’s somewhere in the memories._

“Okay. I guess I’ll just…”

_Come on in._

Going into someone’s mind wasn’t exactly like walking into their house but it felt similar. Instead of physical objects, there were transitory thoughts, emotions and uncomputable feelings. But it had the same familiarity, the same clues as to who a person was. Steve couldn’t take it all in at once; his brain was still working in itself and even with the serum, he couldn’t exactly be two people at once. Instead, he had to tread his way through.

It wasn’t walking but Steve imagined he was. It made it easier to imagine, their brains working in sync to make James’ mind into something of an organised building, like an old Sherlock Holmes novel Steve had read with Bucky back in the 20s, both young and impressionable and endlessly fascinated by Holmes’ great discoveries.

Once they got the details right, Steve was waiting in a grand hallway with two elevators in front of him, one for the left side and one for the right. Above him, the sky rose impossibly high, the end not in sight. The interior was designed like a hotel, each corridor a mezzanine into the grand hallway Steve stood in, at least a dozen doors on each one. Except, unlike a normal hotel, it wasn’t the same monotonous design. No, it was chaotic, with different coloured doors and wallpaper and lighting. And although light was flooding into the room, there were no windows in sight.

Steve, realising the rush he was in, started towards the elevators and, on a whim, got in the left one, pressing the button for the first floor. It was instantaneous; no feeling of moving upwards or even gravity at all. The doors closed and then opened and he was on the first floor, looking over the hall and the opposite corridor, though now unable to look at the corridors above him apart from the ones on the right side.

All the doors were locked.

There were 20 on this floor, all even numbers, all locked.

All the doors on this floor were an old brown, like they’d been varnished at some point but were now worn down and rugged. The wallpaper was similar to that of Steve’s youth but as dilapidated as it would be if any of it had survived to the 2010s. His childhood, Steve realised, if it was to be that old. This must have been his childhood.

No wonder the doors were locked.

The most reliable memories would most likely be the recent ones. Childhood memories were fragile and thin, and although some of them stuck better than tar, just as many were lost to the abyss.

So, as quickly as he could manage (god, they didn’t have long), Steve got back in the elevator and pressed the top button available; separate from the rest, just reading a small infinity symbol. Hopefully, and probably if Steve’s mind was the one making all this up, the top floor.

Steve choked on the smoke, the moment the doors opened. The corridor was charred, like the fire had been recent. But some doors were more broken than others, some almost entirely hanging off their hinges. Steve approached them first.

Most of them were only slightly cracked open, like they weren’t supposed to be open at all but had been hit with a bigger force than expected. Tentatively, he pushed on door number 4 (there was a gaping space where the floor number was supposed to go, but Steve still didn’t have an idea what to fill it with). It opened with a resounding creak, the door soon falling off its hinges and clattering to the floor and-

_Mission report, now. Mission success, target dead at 19:57, a bullet to the stomach. Framed his wife._

Steve ran. There was no door to close behind him; it was like the memory was seeping out the door, a tide of water pouring into the corridor. Steve made his way to the other end of the corridor instead, opening door number 16, the last open door, far more intact than the last, opening without a sound and-

_The feeling of a gun in his hands-_

Steve decided to go back to the elevator. At random, in hopes of finding time before the torture but still strong enough to remain, he went down to one of the lower levels: 17. A random choice, in his mind, but held odd gravity in James’.

All but one of the doors was locked.

Door number 8 had a bloody handprint on it and was swung wide open-

_Falling from the-_

A flash and then nothing, and then everything. Electricity was different inside the mind; it was like fire, consuming and angry. Steve didn’t feel the pain but rather the agony of his skin peeling, of the memories being burned. Nonsensically, the doors didn’t fall down; now, they seemed to be made of fire themselves, as if there wasn’t a room at all.

Steve knew he was screaming, knew the team would find him soon, writhing alone on his bed. But he didn’t feel like himself. He was in James’ head, he was feeling James’ pain, every last impressionable bit. He was feeling what James felt. And what exactly the wipe took away from him.

He knew it had ended when the world went black. Steve was still there, but the hotel had gone, now a dusty pile of rubble in a black abyss. Nothing.

_Get out of my head,_ it hissed, fear lining it’s very core.

‘I’m sorry, you let me be in here. I’ll go now.’

_Who are you?_

Okay, this hasn’t happened before. Last time, it had taken a few minutes for James to get his bearings but he’s always seemed to have an innate trust in Steve. What had-

Steve had been in his head. Steve had been in his head as it had _burnt it down_.

“Fuck,” Steve breathed, the words heavy.

‘Okay, um, well…’ Then Steve just _thought_. Eidetic memory coming in endlessly helpful, he tried to relay their conversations, as objectively as he could, trying to find a point that was between both their minds, not just his own interpretation of events. The Asset - James - whoever this was, sensed it dutifully, giving its own reactions as each scene played.

_I do not remember that._

‘Yeah, I remembered for you. You asked. I couldn’t find any of your old memories, though. Sorry.’

_I do not mind. You have given me some. They feel…distant._

‘Probably will. Do you know what just happened to you?’

_Yes, the chair._

‘Okay, great. Well, not great at all, but it’s a start.’

_I’m going on a mission now,_ was all James said before the iron curtain fell shut and went incommunicado. It was abrupt, almost rude, and Steve couldn’t help but feel a little vilified at being so easily ignored, but he couldn’t ignore the gratitude that he’d have some time for himself to sort this all out.

He had time, he reminded himself.

His impatience still got the best of him.

Instead of following his usual routine, Steve rushed out of bed and headed straight to the common room, ignoring the fact that he was in a t-shirt and sweatpants for the need to talk to the rest of his team. Of course, it wasn’t the best planning on his part; most of the team weren’t up. In fact, a few of them had probably only just fallen asleep (Tony). So, with a few calmer breaths, he returned, had a shower, scarfed down some food he couldn’t recall and, feeling a bit saner, headed back down, asking JARVIS to convene the team.

~*~

_Steve?_

'James?!'

_I remember you. I am supposed to trust you._

'Well, you don't have to-' Steve tried; he wouldn't force James to do anything, even to trust him.

_I do. My mission will be soon. I will inform you of the details when they come._

The iron curtain slammed back down, but even that couldn't dampen Steve's smile.

~*~

_I have acquired my target. He is Russian ambassador Dmitri Alekseyevich Gallitzin._

“Russian ambassador Dmitri Alekseyevich Gallitzin,” Steve recounted aloud, motioning to Natasha, who was calmly typing at her laptop.

“Currently stationed in Germany,” Natasha read from her screen. “Known for his affiliations with the US, both personal and professional.”

‘How long can you delay the kill?’ Steve asked.

_Ten minutes most._

“Goddamit.” He said aloud, before turning his focus inwards again. ‘How long can you stay in Germany?’

_I can evade capture for around 3 hours before the likelihood of capture becomes imminent._

“We’re coming then. Tony, how quickly can we get to Germany?”

“Depends what part. Berlin?”

_Not Berlin. He travelled to Leipzig for a short stay._

“Leipzig.”

“In my suit, four hours. Quinjet will take at least 10.”

“Can you get it down to three?”

“Maybe. Unlikely, I mean. But technically possible. The new suit goes Mach 2. If the weather is right and I go in the right direction, I can skim it down.”

“It’s a long shot,” Steve sighed, pursing his lips. “Do it. Get the quinjet ready too. If this doesn’t work, I at least want to see what’s left.” He paused. ‘Do you think you could leave markers behind? Give us a chance at tracing you.’

_Not easy ones. It will be too obvious._

‘Are you willing to try and run.’

A pause; almost obnoxiously long.

_I do not know._ The threat of punishment was louder than the words, screaming at a level that felt almost worse than the electricity. Conditioning, Natasha had called it. That’s what they had used on her. It was quickly followed by the confusion, familiar and strong, like a heady scent that Steve couldn’t forget. Steve could grasp the edges of the thoughts, so frail that they dissipated as soon as Steve’s mind brushed them.

Who was Steve?

Why was he doing this?

Who was James working for?

Why is he the Asset?

Why does he not remember?

And more. So many questions. Endless, perpetual, an infinity loop of misunderstanding and loss, so pungent Steve would almost call it grief if not for the bleak static ringing through his head, a marker that he wasn’t really feeling anything at all. Nothing but the edges of emotions; maybe what a sociopath would feel, like they weren’t really quite getting there, even if them impression had been made.

‘Please?’

_Okay._ It was the great thing about being so in sync, you didn’t need persuasion. A person’s arguments were presented in their entirety without having to think of the words to construct them. Although they still spoke, it was like a way of masking what was behind it. The truth came in the feeling, the thoughts, the emotions. James saw everything Steve saw. He knew how Steve believed James was being tortured, controlled and manipulated. Steve knew that James didn’t quite believe that but was willing to be disproven, in time. He was willing to let Steve find him, to escape his old captors, because Steve had been the only one to tell him the truth in a very long time.

“He’s in. Tony, you ready?”

“On it, Cap,” Tony replied, his serious tone implying he knew just how important this was to Steve. Tony wasn’t often serious, unless in the face of world doom. It said a lot that he was willing to take on his mission-stance for Steve, who he’d fought with more than he’d laughed with. But they had an unwitting friendship, nonetheless, maybe one of the strongest of the groups. It was messy, made no sense, but that was just life. Life never made sense.

Within a few minutes, Tony had set off, leaving behind an empty quinjet for Natasha and Clint to pilot. They all boarded, even Bruce, who must have been genuinely curious enough to forget about the fact that he only came on missions that necessitated the hulk. The likelihood was, he was still trying to get another good look at Steve’s head. Or maybe just ask him a lot of questions.

_My shot has been made. I have another five minutes before they notice I have completed the mission. I will begin to evade capture. I am heading West. I will shut off now; I do not want to be distracted._ I want to make sure I am making the right decision, he didn’t need to add.

Although it wasn’t likely to make the largest difference on foot, heading West would help cut as much time as they could. ‘Get onto trains if you can. Or any transport. I know it makes you easier to catch but it’ll mean Tony has less far to travel. The two of your together should be enough to hold them off until the rest of us arrive.’

_Okay. Goodbye, Steve._ Steve didn’t ask why James was so uncertain that Tony would be enough. It did mean, though, that whoever James was working for, they were strong and possibly plentiful.

“Stark,” Steve said through the comms, “be careful. James seems to think that even the two of you together might not be safe.”

“I’m Iron Man, Capsicle. I’ll be enough.” Steve really wasn’t so sure anymore.

“We ready to go?” Steve shouted to Natasha in the front.

“All set. You good back there.”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late! Inspiration has been a bust but I think I'm back at it again. Next three chapters should all be up on time, but that's the last of my pre-written chapters so we'll see where it goes from there.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy, this is a bit of a hard hitter :)

4, 3, 2, 1.

Don’t look back.

The Asset’s eyes drew to the blood on his hands, already crusting in the deep calluses. There were new blisters today; ones that would be gone in the hour but still painful in the meanwhile. He didn’t know how he’d got them. He didn’t particularly care. 

Shut your eyes, let the world go black. Darkness. Steadiness. Focus. Keep the curtain down. 

Run.

Don’t look, run. Let instincts take over. Be the bloodhound they made you. Fast; faster than should have been possible. And silent. So quiet that even the night wouldn’t have been able to capture your sounds. 

Instead, he was exposed by the sun. The German skies were bleak but the slight sun felt like unnecessary exposure.

He needed to change.

Racing to the edge of the city, he took a man into an alley and stripped him. He stuffed his uniform into the guy’s backpack, taking out what essential items were in there and leaving them next to the unconscious man (Steve was changing him; he didn’t know if he liked it or not), and slung the bag over his shoulder, darting away. Now dressed in civilian garb, so tight that he was struggling to conceal the weapons on his person, he strode calmly to the nearest train station, a small place that was clearly only made for locals. It wouldn’t take him far but he found the route with the least stops, snuck past the barrier and got on the train.

When the train operator asked for his ticket, he would pretend not to speak German and repeat that he had lost his wallet.

It would have worked if he didn’t look like a homeless man. He was kicked off in Lützen, but not arrested. So, thinking over his options, he quickly took a map off a tourist stand and found another train station before boarding another train. This time, he was not checked for a ticket.

The boredom quickly hit; the last hour had felt like nothing more than a dream. And - for better or worse - he was finally waking up. He was the Soldier but he was something else now too, something that made the Soldier feel foreign in his own body, like a dream that he could never quite hold onto. Tired and unsure of what he was doing - or rather why - he opened his mind back up. 

_James, are you okay?_

Only now did he realise his heart was racing, adrenaline poisoning his blood down to the individual cells. He was shaking. No wonder it had felt like a dream; his own body was working against him, replacing the calm with undeniable fear.

Paranoid, he looked around the carriage. This wouldn’t work if people thought he was crazy; he needed to be inconspicuous. His eyes tracked the few other people in the carriage. At least half of them were staring.

He moved to an empty carriage. 

He was lucky, he’d travelled at a good time, avoiding rush hour by sheer luck. There were plenty of options, ones with better sight lines than others. Deliberating quickly, aware of how Steve was lingering in his mind, trying to get a read on his thoughts, he chose the one two carriages behind and took a seat by the window.

‘I do not know,’ he finally thought, staring listlessly out the windows before moving away and into the next seat. The rattling of the window was overpoweringly loud. 

_Where are you?_

‘Somewhere outside of Naumburg.’ His eyes darted throughout the carriage. ‘So far, I have no tails. But they will know I’m gone.’ It hadn’t quite been an hour yet but James didn’t kid himself that his handlers hadn’t realised he was gone a few minutes after the fact. He was usually docile, he knew that much, they didn’t expect him to run.

He didn’t know why he was running.

_Because they’re torturing you._

Steve didn’t get it. Didn’t get that order came from pain-

_What did you just say- I mean, think?_

‘Order comes from pain.’

Steve didn’t need to say anything, the fear, the sadness, the guilt that came ravaging through the bond was worse than any torture James had been conditioned through.

_That’s…_

‘Who are Hydra?’

Again, Steve didn’t need to elaborate. Visions of plain countryside and quiet towns were covered by ceaseless mud and crumbling buildings, plumes of smoke rising from once-perfect towns. Forests: their beauty destroyed by the torment of war. A ship, a man with skin as red as blood and a doctor with squinty eyes and-

‘I remember him.’

_What?_

‘The doctor. Armin Zola. Swiss scientist. He was my handler for a while. In the beginning.’

Steve’s sickness was distracting so James shut it out. Unable to look outside any longer, he focused on the interior of the cabin. His position was perfect. He was at the back of the train so he only had to patrol one door, which he was facing. He’d be able to know if anyone was coming in or out and, being sat at the back, he’d be able to jump out the window before they could reach him.

It would hurt, probably break multiple bones, but he’d still be able to run and they wouldn’t be able to follow him without being permanently crippled.

That was the problem with creating something stronger than you; you’d never really be able to beat it.

He could feel a pressure in his head, Steve trying to find gaps in James’ perfect exterior, but ignored it, focusing solely on the door. It was electronic and would make an unchanging noise if someone opened it, meaning it wasn’t exactly necessary to stare at it but it loosened muscles he didn’t know were tense when he was able to patrol it.

It was irrational. The Asset wasn’t irrational. But more and more, he was learning that maybe James was. 

Another hour went by, marking roughly two hours since he’d left his position. The risk wasn’t high yet but when he got off, it likely would be. His handlers - Hydra? - had operatives across most major countries, catching him in their web wherever he turned. He would have to remain quiet but the longer he did, the more they’d amp up their search. The Asset was important; indispensable. They’d find him through whatever means necessary. 

The train slowed to a stop in Fulda, an hour out from Frankfurt. It wasn’t as busy as he’d hoped it would be, making it harder to blend in among the crowds but he did his best to seem unassuming, hoping his stinking exterior and general lack of tidiness would avert people rather than draw attention. 

‘I am in Fulda,’ he reported.

_We’re on schedule. Tony should be able to reach you soon. He’s still flying over the Atlantic now but approaching land._

‘I have no tails so far but my handlers have agents all over the country. I might not recognise them.’ He would recognise how they stalked him; the classic moves of a tail, but Steve knew that already. 

_Keep your eyes peeled. We’re on our way. You know what Iron Man looks like?_

‘I am in your head. Yes.’

 _Yeah…_ Steve would do well to stop forgetting that; James was getting some weird pictures. Steve sure did…think a lot. _Do you see what I know about Hydra?_

‘It hurts to look at,” he admitted, ‘but I know enough. They tortured your friend.’

 _Yeah, they did,_ Steve said and James could almost hear the sigh. _Like they’ve done to you,_ Steve reminded.

‘They trained me. They did not do much to your friend apart from enhance him-‘

_What, how would you know..._

‘It’s- I-‘ His trail of thought - the memories - were cut short by the sound of a gun filling the alley, loud and grating, taking over each of his senses as he desperately threw himself into the nearest alley, hauling in ragged breaths as he tried to scope out the shooter. 

_James, what’s happening? Why did you-_

‘They’ve found me already. You are too late.’

_Is there any way to leave a path?_

‘I do not know.’ James tried not to focus on the chaos of Steve’s mind and instead found a gun he’d tucked in the back of his waistband and drew it out, checking the clip before taking off the safety and making sure his grip was perfect, all within seconds. They didn’t train him to be slow.

Another bullet rang loud as James inched towards the corner, crashing into the opposite wall and sending a small plume of dust from the newly formed hole in the brick. James tracked the bullet backwards and knew where the shooter had been. If they were clever, they would move between shots. James didn’t have enough memory to know how clever his handlers were. The fact that he was still with them would suggest a degree of competency, except Steve seemed determined that he had been coerced so it was always possible he’d just willingly submitted.

_Do you have anything on you to make explosives?_

‘No.’ James felt irrationally angry at that fact. ‘They were not required for the mission.’ Steve didn’t need to ask what that was; he could see very clearly for himself.

Close quarters; bullet to the head; blood in his eyes.

_What cover is there on the street?_

‘I do not need your help.’ Steve did not reply but the answer was clear. This wasn’t about James, this was about keeping Steve from going insane. ‘Fine, but do not distract me.’ The Winter Soldier acted alone (which, really, didn’t bode well for having a voice in your head. At this point, the burning question was why this was all happening because presumably if this was Hydra science, they would have done something a little more useful to their cause, rather than something that seemed strongly against it. Did they think he could persuade Steve to the other side? Bring his enhancements to Hydra, the people he’d once fought. Impossible, he thought, knowing what was going on in Steve’s head, but not beyond thought if they didn’t know Steve inside out. It was a little terrifying, honestly, to know someone so well, especially when you were nothing yourself.) 

_You’re certainly thinking more. I think it’ll all come back eventually._

‘No distractions,’ James said, ‘I am not going back without a fight.’

_Damn right you’re not. What weapons do you have?_

‘I have a spare gun and two knives.’ 

_How many shooters?_

‘One for now but there will be more.’

 _Again, what cover do you have out there?_ James tried to project the image in his mind; he wasn’t as used to it as Steve was. Whilst Steve’s eidetic memory recalled everything, James’ half-fried brain meant that his short term memory was a little rusty if it wasn’t necessary for the mission. 

‘Parked cars on either side of the road. A few street lamps.’ Not that those would be particularly helpful but when aided by his metal arm, could provide enough shelter for a few seconds recuperation, at least protecting his head from bullets if he knew the angle they were coming from.

 _Any chance you can run?_ Despite Steve’s lack of common sense, he did know that the best tip in a gunfight was usually to get out of said gunfight. Unfortunately, most of his were necessary. This, however, was better avoided. No one needed to die yet, especially not if they could help lead him to James. It was perfectly clear in James’ mind what to do, reading into Steve’s like it was his own and pushing his heart rate down to a sensible beat, steadying his gun in his hand. 

‘I can try. I will have to be in the open at some point, though.’

_I think it’s the best option. Can you run and aim?_

‘Yes.’ It had been drilled hard into his training routine. The Asset could do anything. He could run whilst being shot at, he could run having been shot, he could be shot and shoot at the same time. He was a weapon; he did not feel hurt.

_You’re not a weapon._

‘Right now, I’m going to have to be.’

Steve didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, _be careful. Tony’s getting closer to land._

Taking in one last breath, James escaped the alley and pushing off the wall, ran beyond the limits of any normal human, ducking behind cars as gunshots rang out. He assumed three shooters, although prepared himself for four, not one to be caught off guard. As he approached a turning, a bullet nicked his thigh but at least one captor fell behind him with a grunt as he pulled his trigger; a success.

Now was the important bit; losing his trail.

It wouldn’t be easy. They were willing to take shots at him and he was outnumbered badly. He still had an hour at the least until he was getting backup. Something odd flickered in his mind, a memory. They always felt weird, almost out of place, like they were someone else’s and not his. But they weren’t Steve’s, that was for sure. In it, he was alone in a sniper’s nest, his teammates lost the cacophony below. He was alone and surrounded, all of his enemies aware of his position. He didn’t have backup; they were all preoccupied with their own tasks.

He didn’t remember having a team, but it felt like the most logical assumption here. But in this memory, lost in the forest, he was alone. Outnumbered. And he lived.

The Asset always lived.

_James, that was-_

‘Not now.’

_But-_

‘I’m not him. It must just look similar.’

_I know, I know, he’s gone but- that was- it was-_

“You keep this up and I’m dying, Rogers,” James suddenly spat, something old and caked in dust rising up, ‘so shut your goddamn stupid mouth and let me get out of this mess.’

 _Oh my god-_ Steve’s torment seemed to take up every crevice in his mind but he did as he was told and stopped actively projecting anything. Taking his original approach to closing off his mind, he’d gotten a music player from somewhere and was studiously listening to the notes in an attempt to clear his mind.

After five minutes of James running desperately through the streets, trying to blend into the crowds, the notes changed. Heavy rock music blared in his mind, loud and pungent, sending adrenaline through his already poisoned veins. Somehow, it was better, more fitting. With a sinister smile, he checked behind him, rounded his shoulders and _ran_. 

The beat kept in time with every second footstep, the singer’s screams like a siren’s call as bullets fired behind him. He sent another bullet backwards and earned a half-arsed grunt for his efforts. Probably not a kill shot but enough to slow at least one of them down.

He turned the corner, heart racing, when he was faced with the bustling crowds of the town’s central market. The hoards pushed him away, not letting him through the throng. Clearly, something else was happening, the crowds gathered were clapping and cheering at something. James couldn’t see from his vantage but it was enough to send a violent surge of sickness up his throat. Swallowing it down as best as he could, he desperately tried to turn back on himself and make it back past the agents but it was too late.

They were already saying the words. 

Now in close range, there was no hope of stopping them. God, it had been so long. The Americans didn’t even  _ know _ these words. He knew with a certain absoluteness that no noise he could make would be loud enough. Prevention was futile.

_ Bucky, what’s- _

‘I’m sorry, Steve,’ he thought, just as the last words were spoken, before everything turned blank, an iron curtain falling down in his mind.

~*~

“It’s Bucky.”

“So you’ve said, Steve, but that just doesn’t make any _sense_. He died seventy years ago,” Tony said.

“He might have been enhanced. Zola’s experiments. James, Bucky, he said he thought he’d been experimented on, even though he didn’t understand how he knew that.”

“That’s not necessarily proof. Hydra knows a lot, it wouldn’t be a surprise if he’d assimilated some of it,” Natasha pointed out.

“But why would that be what he remembers? It was a Howlies mission, Nat. I _remember_ it.”

They were all convened in the common room, exhausted and upset. With James - Bucky, who knew - gone and his mind sealed and no trail to follow, they were all left to contain their pain in their own ways.

Certainly not therapy, that was for sure.

Tony was already down one bottle of whiskey, and Nat a bottle of vodka, the empty bottles clutched almost desperately to their chests. Bruce had disappeared to god knows where and Clint was steadfastly making his way through his eighth packet of tortilla chips (the only thing left in the cupboards, it seemed). Steve, on the other hand, stood, his muscles tight and legs pacing back and forth on their own accord.

“Hydra have implanted memories before.” Her lack of secrecy lately made Steve think that was personal but he didn’t dare comment on it, not when they were all like this. This was when the Avengers were most volatile, so close to what they were when they’d first met. No doubt Steve and Tony would come to blows first, but Natasha - for all her composure - wouldn’t be far from joining in anymore. Something about revealing her secrets had stripped her walls down and made her quick to anger, as if they’d finally reached her vulnerable layer. Steve didn’t count on it lasting long but it was certainly a sight to behold. 

“But why would they implant memories into him when they used every effort to burn them out of him? It doesn’t make sense.”

“If they know he’s going to remember, they might as well make him remember wrong.”

“And make him think he’s Bucky Barnes? In what world would that be useful?”

“I don’t know, Steve, okay?! But forgive me if I think you may be projecting your grief a little bit.”

“You think I’m trying to- Nat, I might have just figured out my best friend, the guy I grew up with, shared everything with, fought with, might have been tortured for over 70 years. You think I want that? That I think that’s better than him having died? Because I don’t know but I certainly wouldn’t hope for it! This is fucked up and disgusting and you think I want that for him?”

“That’s not what I was-“

“Like hell it wasn’t!” He shouted, losing his last thread. “I have almost indisputable evidence that this is Bucky and you really want to argue with me on it? When I’ve just found out that the man I let fall, that I didn’t go after, has been with my greatest enemy all along. That Hydra are still out there, somewhere. That-“

“I think Hydra might be in SHIELD.”

“What?” Steve whispered, turning to Tony, who’s eyes were scanning a page on his tablet. 

“I think Hydra might be in SHIELD.”

“Yes, I heard you the first time, Tony. Why the hell would you think that?”

“The weapons. On the helicarrier. And…some other stuff that I may have just hacked into.”

Natasha scowled. “SHIELD is not Hydra-“

“Project Insight. Sure seems dodgy to me.” 

Natasha’s face crumbled, her final exterior shedding. It was nothing like Steve had thought it would be. There was no crying girl underneath, no broken child in need of help. This was a woman who had tried everything in her power to be good and found that she’d still been working for the bad guys the entire time. And instead of crying, or screaming, or shouting, she was just blank, like someone had taken her final mask and realised there was nothing but a ghost underneath. Trying to rebuild herself but a ghost nonetheless. “You’re wrong,” she hissed, almost desperately, although Natasha could never honestly pull that off.

“What’s Project Insight?” Steve asked, only to regret he ever did. Tony’s explanation was the last thing he wanted to hear at the end of this hell-bound day.

“They’re- oh god.” Everything Steve had done was for nothing. It was-

“You took them down once, Cap, you can do it again. We can do it.” Tony, for all he’d been drinking, had sobered up pretty quickly. Whether he’d even been drunk to begin with was another question; Tony’s tolerance was practically superhuman. Then again, Steve didn’t think any human could really survive a whole bottle of whiskey without being at least a bit unbalanced.

Maybe Tony had just gotten good at hiding it.

“I thought they were gone for good.”

“They will be this time. They haven’t got a leg to stand on against us.”

“Where else are they? Apart from SHIELD.”

“Not sure, but if they’re in SHIELD, I’m going to place bets on them being everywhere. Give me a night, I’ll find out as much as I can.”

“I’m helping,” Natasha said, a defiant look in her eye. “If this is true, I want to know everything.”

Steve took sudden notice of Clint, who’d been eerily silent this entire time. “I need to talk to someone,” he said quietly, rubbing his hands down his face. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” was all he added before deserting them. 

“Anything I can do?” Steve asked. 

“Not yet. Just try and get back in contact with…you know, him. Bucky, James, whatever. Save your strength, that’s when we’re really gonna need you.”

Steve nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, before going back to his room. He knew he wasn’t going to sleep tonight but he lay in his bed anyway, desperately trying to contact Bucky.

Nothing.

It was like losing him all over again.

Even with nothing to do, Steve still didn’t sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late...again. From now on, updates are happening when they're happening. But! In penance, here is a much longer chapter than usual :) Hopefully subscription emails are up and working again so this goes through. With that, just a warning, I would check if the last chapter was actually the last one you read (I have already been caught out on this once XD)
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> (Edit: I have also tweaked the last chapter. No need to re-read it but it was just to add that the American Hydra cell don't know Bucky's trigger words. I count this as canon as otherwise the whole plot of Winter Soldier would fall apart - more than most Marvel films anyway. On another note: I have learnt why so many authors struggle with fight scenes. They're goddamn hard.)

A month passed and nothing happened. A whole month of nothing; futile searches and desperate attempts to prove an outlandish conspiracy and nothing to show for it. Steve had been half-driven to madness, spending longer and longer hours in the gym, punching until his hands were raw, healing quicker than they could split. He didn’t sleep anymore, and he ate a normal man’s diet, pushing him at least 1000 calories short of what was necessary, if not more. He looked like a dead man walking. 

With nothing to actively chase, and no skills in computers other than googling, he was left in the dust. Natasha and Tony had been busy, but most of their information was piecemeal and barely formed a coherent picture. Bruce was trying to look into ways to help Bucky once he was found but had to be removed from the tower on multiple occasions due to frequent hulk-outs. Clint was rarely seen, hanging around in hidden corners of the tower, looking uselessly at the wall.

Mind-control reminded him of bad times.

It was on Christmas-Eve that they finally had the breakthrough they’d been waiting for. “Alexander Pierce. He has to be Hydra.”

“He won a Nobel Peace Prize, didn’t he?” Clint said from his place on the sofa, lounging in a falsely casual pose. 

“What does he look like?” Steve asked. Quickly, Tony brought a picture up on his Stark-pad and turned it to Steve. “He’s the handler,” Steve said with surety. “He’s just what Bucky described.” Not that the description was all that specific, but Steve wasn’t going to let this go. He had to do something, now. Of course, he wasn’t going to go and kill the guy before he knew for certain - he wasn’t a Nazi, for god’s sake - but he wasn’t going to let this pass. “Look into him more. I want proof.”

“Sure thing, Cap,” Tony said, in a surprising act of deference to Steve. Steve had always been their team leader but Tony had always acted as if it was his role anyway. In a way, it was. Steve may have been the strategist but Tony did just about everything else. “And yes, the guy did get a Nobel Peace Prize. But honestly, that makes him more suspicious. This guy almost looks  _ too _ good but his patterns are off. He’s been going to the same bank every four months on the exact same day Steve gets contact. Which would be fine, a coincidence even, except he doesn’t have any money in any of their accounts. One of his companies has ties to its investment section but it’s loose. A good enough excuse to get through light scrutiny but doesn’t stand up to much else.”

“You think he might be there?” Everyone knew just who ‘he’ actually was.

“Likely. And I think we need to be quick. As little as I like to admit it, Hydra has some pretty clever tech guys and they’re catching onto me being in their system. If they know we know where he is, they’re going to move him.”

“How much time-“

_ Steve? _

“He’s awake. Guys, mission prep, now! Tony, where’s the bank?”

“DC. It’ll take 30 minutes in the suit, a bit longer in the quinjet.”

_ Steve, they’re going to- _

‘You need to hang in there. We’re coming. We know where you are.’

_ I can’t, they’re going to- _

It was already too late. Clearly, Hydra had figured something out because they’d put him in the chair faster than they ever had before, the descending electricity burning every facet of thought possible between them. Taken by surprise, Steve’s knees buckled, hurdling him towards the floor as he clutched his head. Around him, Natasha started shouting orders. Tony had already flown out, so Clint was left to try and help Natasha haul Steve to his feet, leading him awkwardly to the quinjet. He couldn’t be left behind, not when he was the only link to the Soldier’s location.

Steve could hear the shouting only on the edges of his consciousness, overwhelmed by the sheer voltage going through his head. Distantly, through the crackling static, he knew that this wasn’t the same as the other times. They had put the voltage up. Apparently, they were desperate enough to risk Bucky becoming brain dead if it meant he forgot thoroughly enough that he didn’t try and run again.

Obviously, they didn’t know Steve was in his head yet, even if they had an inkling of interference with the Asset. If he’d been sane, Steve would have wondered what they thought was happening. Especially as they had likely been the ones to cause this in the first place.

Eight minutes later, there was silence. Dreaded silence. Broken only by the gentle rumbling of the quinjet’s engines. Natasha was in the pilot’s seat, directing them into the air, whilst Clint kept an eye on Steve, eyes narrowed but pitying. “You back with us?” Steve nodded, albeit weakly, and tried to sit up.

Bad decision.

_ Get out of my head. _ Without dignifying that with a response, Steve lay back down and let the sweep of memories take hold of him again, showcasing them for Bucky. But, unlike last time, he didn’t just give their recent history. He gave twenty-five years of growing up together, fighting together, loving each other. Steve tried not to let his feelings intervene, giving Bucky the clearest picture of their past. 

But Steve knew that the jig was up; Bucky could read his mind, it wasn’t like Steve could hide it. He hoped, anyway, that Bucky wouldn’t hold it against him. At least ten years of infatuation was embarrassing enough without knowing the other person knew about it.

It took longer than usual, ten minutes passing of Steve trying to piece together the past in a coherent manner when he was finally shut off with a decisive  _ stop _ . 

Steve, as stubborn as ever, tried to push the last few images through (Bucky with a baseball in his hand, throwing it and watching Steve miss for the third time, both of them cackling at Steve’s bad sportsmanship in a way Steve would have never let anyone else do), but was stopped by a desperate  _ Steve, stop, please. _

In an act of uncharacteristic self-restraint, he finally put the images on hold.

‘Do you remember?’

Bucky didn’t answer but the truth was clear. Bucky didn’t remember a thing but something just as instinctive told them they were his memories, all slightly distorted by perspective. It was like watching a film of your life, aware that it was your own just as much as you were aware that it didn’t quite capture what was really going on. 

After a wipe like that, Bucky’s mind was barely functioning, crackling with endless static that even Steve’s memories couldn’t diminish. It was all too much too soon. But it was enough to get Steve’s trust. Enough to break the complicity and mindlessness. Only just, but it was there.

Steve hated being labelled the handler but he had to be if this was going to work. For now, anyway.

_ What now? _

‘Now we find you. Are you in a bank?’

_ Likely. I’m in the basement, surrounded by vaults. _

‘Stark should be…”Natasha, how long will Stark be?”

“Fifteen minutes most.”

_ Got it. _

‘What are they doing now?’

_ My handler has left. They are getting me ready for transport. _

‘How long will that take?’

_ Likely ten minutes. _

‘Can you delay that by five?’

_ Possibly. If I fight them I will either be incarcerated quicker or buy myself more time. _

Steve let out a breath and tried to control his fear. At the very least, Bucky was sounding a lot more like, well, Bucky. It was like something had finally clicked into place and instead of handler, Steve became Captain. Not much of a distinction in the end but enough to settle the unease in Steve’s chest.

They’d find him, he promised himself. And then he could know that it really was Bucky and he wasn’t lying to himself in a manner that felt awkwardly familiar. But he couldn’t be. This was right. It had to be him-

_ It is. I think. Those memories…they are familiar. The man in them, he looks like me. _ Steve knew that wasn’t particularly trustworthy, especially as Bucky was using the reflection of that godforsaken chair to try and find the similarities. It felt good nonetheless to know his chances of being wrong were minimal.

‘Good. Stay where you are.’

_ I’ll try, pal. _ If he noticed Steve’s agony - which he almost certainly did - he didn’t react to it. He may have sounded like Bucky, but the emotions were a little distant, like he hadn’t quite grasped the idea of being human yet. But Steve could deal with that. He could easily deal with that if it meant getting Bucky back.

_ I’m not him. I may have been once, but not anymore. _

‘I’ll take you however you are.’

_ I can read your mind. I know you will but I also know you want him more. _

‘You’ll remember.’

_ Maybe. _ But I don’t want the pressure to, he didn’t need to add. 

‘I’m sorry. I’m making this worse.’

_ You can’t help it, it’s fine. This mind connection was going to get in the way at some point. I can shut it off if you want. _

‘How do you do that?’

_ I go into mission mode. I focus on a single point and do not let myself divert from it. _

Steve thought of his restless syndrome, quickly losing hope. ‘I don’t think I can do that,’ he thought, disappointedly. 

_ They trained me to be able to. It is a skill. Not a very practical one; makes it hard to focus on the whole mission sometimes, if I let it go too far. _

Steve didn’t need to answer that either; the helpless wash of pain was answer enough. Silence fell for a while, Bucky’s mind flashing with reports every now and then. He’d been as uncooperative as possible without cause for punishment but it would delay them by a minute at most. Eventually, Bucky was going to have to begin the fight himself.

‘Stark is five minutes away.’

_ I am about to go into the truck. _

‘He’ll go faster. Next chance you have; you fight.’

Steve took in a shuddering breath and repeated the hollow mantra that everything was going to be alright, ignoring the overload of sensations as the iron curtain fell between them. Mission-mode then, it was time to finish this

“Stark,” Steve relayed over the comms, “you’re gonna need to speed it up. Bucky’s attacked.” Or, at the least, he was finding a way to. No doubt there’d been enough people there to take him out if he wasn’t clever about it. Steve wished he hadn’t shut off, that he could help but after last time, Steve knew that it wasn’t particularly useful. No, he’d just have to wait until he was there himself.

~*~

Silence. Broken by the muted mutters of discontented soldiers. Terrorist organisation or not, plenty of people hated their jobs, especially when stuck in the mundane roles such as preparing transportation. No doubt, when people joined the whole terrorist business, they expected to be big players in a dangerous game but no, like every business, more people needed to do the dirty-work than needed to lead.

The Soldier watched them all carefully, his mind shuttered and blank. No doubt it meant he looked the part: freshly wiped and loyal. Like a dog they could leash. Perfect. It meant it would be all the more surprising when he bit. 

Their last job was to put him into uniform. The situation was awkward, especially with James lucid. The soldiers were told not to take their eyes off him but were so embarrassed at the sight of his skin that they seemed to do a dance with their eyes that meant he was never out of their sight but also avoided looking at him in his entirety. It would have been a perfect moment to strike, except for the ensuing fight he’d need his gear and weapons. It was better to wait, he surmised, even if their looks were starting to make him feel just as awkward.

It was a foreign feeling: this awareness. It was something so akin to humanity that it almost choked him. And then he thought of Steve and-

_ Are you alright? Your mind opened again. _

‘I was distracted. I need to focus,’ he deadpanned before slamming the curtain back down. As he said, mission-mode was only really acceptable for one action at a time: or at least one focus, like the mission. His mind still worked full-time thinking of contingencies but it had to stay on topic or else everything would fall apart.

Breathing his way back into the familiar headspace, he realised there was nothing left but to muzzle him. He ignored the painful twisting of his guts (an emotion he couldn’t recognise but would learn to in time) and leant his head back, baring his neck in a way that wasn’t at all comfortable in the circumstances. But he was supposed to be their dog, so their dog he would be.

They attached the muzzle, the hard material - a plastic-metal combination that was both durable and light with a kevlar covering - digging into his skin. It would leave raw red marks later but there wasn’t time to think about it. He had his uniform. His weaponry would not be given until he was moved so he would have to rely on his attackers for that. For all intents and purposes, he was ready.

Drawing his hand around the curtain, he pulled it back just an inch and whispered  _ now _ and before Steve could reply, he struck.

The beginning was quick, flipping over and behind the first soldier drew the bullets, each one imbedding itself in their fellow operative. Snatching the gun with his metal arm, deflecting the few bullets sent his way, he hid behind the body and shot with his impervious arm. Three more went down, and then the next ran. He didn’t chase, not yet. For the next part, he’d need better weapons. 

He slipped into the next room, the one behind the chair where they prepped him. It contained the hose and his weaponry. Even a fridge for the few times they gave the Asset food, frozen and congealed but edible enough for someone with an enhanced immune system. 

Grabbing the basics, as well as his favourites, he snuck back into the room, careful to see if any operatives had reentered. Silence. Now, he’d have to fight the crowd. Lucky for him, that only made this easier. Putting the grenade and smoke flare in easily accessible places, he ran into the corridor, easily shooting down the first two assailants. 

From there, he made it up the elevator, deadly still, not letting himself feel the anxiety of a man long gone. For a moment, he missed having Steve in his head, passing the time in James’ endless blankness. He tried to let his mind wander, to imagine, but it felt too forced, like the images he was conjuring were scraps of his memory and not his imagination. Grim and vivid, he dispelled them and let the silence take over, leaving on the Soldier behind.

He raised his gun as the elevator door opened, shooting down another three gunmen, ignoring the fearful scientist who’d been running away from the commotion. They were in the main part of the bank now, although out of the way from the main consumers. A backroom, he thought, shut behind lock and key. 

It was where they had congregated. 

It didn’t leave much room for cover but he already had the smoke bomb prepped, rolling it across the ground as he held his gun up. They didn’t dare fire; they didn’t want to kill the Asset so they couldn’t risk firing blindly. But the Soldier was built for situations like these. The smoke didn’t make him cough, nor close his eyes. And enhanced senses - if only slight - meant he could see the shadows through the fog. Maybe only the closest, but enough to pick them off as he waded through the thick air.

It wasn’t action-packed, nor thrilling. It felt mundane; a job he’d been doing for a century. There was no longer the thrill or the adrenaline or the fun. Killing was as entertaining as typing numbers into a spreadsheet. 

Before the smoke could clear, he stood in the middle and with his best voice, he shouted. No words, just a primal scream, drawing them towards him. Then, with the silence they ingrained into him - the ghost, the fist, the invisible dagger in their enemies' back - he stalked back to his original position and threw the grenade ruthlessly into the fray. 

The sounds had drawn attention. 

Screams and bangs collided in a messy cacophony of agony and workers rushed into the back to see what was happening. Hydra, what was left of it anyway, shot them down. James didn’t know if he was capable of sadness anymore but a tremor had worked its way up his arm.

He had to stop this.

With the smoke clear, he finally took this as the directive to put forward his best attack. He fought. Dirty. Knives and guns and rage, spinning and kicking and punching as waves of agents pushed forward. James didn’t know there were this many, it felt surreal, like there was an endless stream. There had to be at least 20 people, maybe even closer to 30, all barging in and shooting and fighting. He fought 5 at a time, the most that could get close to him. 

He didn’t tire. Or if he did, he didn’t let it show, letting the sweat drip as he continued, keeping the agents focused on him and not the panicked screams outside. Not the brave souls trying to help. Something inside him just screamed ‘ _ help them’ _ .

He didn’t know if it was his own voice or not.

He had at least half of them left when a resounding clang filled the room, a gaping hole in the ceiling. And there was Iron Man, finally, after so long chasing him, his gauntlets held up and an aura of rage even without his face on show. James threw himself out of the line of fire, rolling hazardously along the floor, and drawing another pistol from his thigh, shooting at those who dared to turn away from Tony Stark.

Tony, for all his famous wise-cracking, was silent as he shot down James’ captors. It looked effortless, almost beautiful in the suit, beams of icy blue shooting at his demons. Unlike James’ dirty work, this was what the other fight looked like. The good fight.

_ It’s not perfect. _

James’ scoffed and fired his last shot, collapsing backwards in a heap of sweat and blood. Tony took down the last man, waiting a minute in silence before removing his faceplate. “James? Bucky? Whatever your name is?”

“That’s me,” James intoned. “Where is Steve?”

Tony laughed. “I’m starting to see your priorities.” He put the faceplate back on and looked away from James, “Cap, location?” He listened and turned back. “They’re not far out but it’ll be easier to take you to them. You ready to dangle from my arms for a bit?”

James frowned but acquiesced quickly. He had to get out of here and fast. The authorities were on their way and no doubt Hydra would be sending another round of agents to try and capture him. 

The journey, luckily, was quick, saving James the possibility of embarrassment - if that was something he felt anymore - and James was quickly flung into the plane before Tony saluted and flew off by himself. His job was done. 

James landed as best as he could seeing as the plane was moving at a miraculously fast speed and barely huffed a breath when he landed, letting the judder travel up his body in a short wave of pain.

“Bucky?”

James looked up, squinting at the man above him and-

Flashes. So many. Indecipherable, painful, beautiful-

“You’re remembering.”

“You’re…I know you. From before.”

“Yeah, Buck. Why don’t you sit down? Maybe we can go through these together, make it a little less overwhelming.”

“Can you feel it too?”

“A little bit. Less than you, I presume.”

“It hurts.”

“I’m sorry, pal.”

Not willing to divulge in Steve’s thoughts, James turned to the rest of the room. Natasha - Natalia - was there, eyes narrowed and suspicious. A man in purple was in the cockpit, turning them back around towards the tower. 

“Natalia.”

“Soldier.”

“You do not trust me.”

“Not at all.”

“Okay.”

He turned away, disliking the way Natasha was examining him like she was looking for something  _ specific _ and went back to Steve, who’s mind was racing faster than James’ goddamn heart. “Stop thinking so loud,” James complained, taking a seat next to Steve. 

“I’m not,” Steve shot back defensively.

“You are. I’m fine.”

“I know.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Okay, fine, I don’t but you were-“

“Tortured? I was used, maybe.”

“What they did to you-“

“It made me a better soldier.”

“It made you  _ inhuman _ .” 

“It made me different from what I was before.” Steve huffed and turned away, like that could actually take them away from this conversation. Evidently, when James’ voice rang through his head, it couldn’t. ‘I am different now.’

_ I know. _ Steve sighed aloud, letting his head thunk loudly against the barrel of the plane.  _ How much do you remember? Can I look? _

‘Not now.’ They seemed to have moved further than language; the messages rang clear but they were no longer voiced. It was all mediated by tender pushes in both directions, pleas and rejections in the space of milliseconds. Steve, clearly, was a little bitter about the speed of denial. James could only be thankful that they didn’t draw this out.

_ I don’t want to hurt you. I want to help. _

‘I know. But I don’t need you to.’ After that, there was silence. Except it wasn’t the same as true silence; there was too much residue left, too many emotions scattered between them that hadn’t been cleared up. James felt what it truly meant to leave a conversation hanging. And with neither leaving anytime soon, they didn’t exactly have the alone time to sweep it up.

This was going to be harder than they’d first thought.

“You are not going back into cryofreeze.”

“It would be easier, give you some peace of mind.”

“And it would mean doing exactly the same as what Hydra did.”

“That makes you angry. Why-“ He didn’t continue that aloud, barraged by images of everything Hydra had done. And that was in WWII alone; James only knew a fraction of their more recent missions but he was willing to capitulate that some of them weren’t any better.

Children dying. Hospitals bombed. Torture. Violent experimentation. Genocide.

And James had been a part of that.

_ They forced you. _

“I still did it.” James’ guilt felt like a wound, so unfamiliar that he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. He knew Hydra was bad but a lot of things in this world were bad. Most people were bad. Even the best people were bad at some point. But Hydra, it was becoming clear, was  _ evil _ . 

_ Now you see why what they did to you was so bad. _

‘They just made a soldier. They have done worse.’

“No!” Steve burst out aloud. “They haven’t. They tortured you, forced you to kill, dehumanised you and they did it for decades. The systematic dehumanisation of a man, a war hero…there won’t be worse.”

“You are saying that because I was your friend. It is what you believe, I see that, but you are not right.”

“Then we’re at a stalemate.” 

The conversations from there were smattered and mostly internal, probably even accidental. Steve kept forcefully trying to shove memories down James’ throat until he finally backed off when James admitted that they were making him feel sick. He tried to play music but it only irritated James. 

He just wanted silence.

And, it appeared, that was never going to come again.

“Sor-“

“Don’t.”

Then they were back where they started. Time passed quickly enough anyway and soon they were landing in an area James was completely unfamiliar with except for the fact that he knew Steve and Steve knew this place. However, there was no feeling of safety or home. More like…an office. Familiarity, comfort but not in the way that was expected. Cold, hard, but a daily occurrence. Somehow, James also knew Steve lived here.

That wasn’t good.

The quinjet landed gentler than James knew they could on Stark’s helipad, where Tony - still in his Iron Man suit - was waiting. “They’re all going crazy,” he said as an introduction, stepping out of his suit as he led the others inside, like he’d been ready to fly out at a moment's notice if something was wrong.

“Who?” Steve asked, although he was sure he knew the answer.

“Media, internet, everyone. Big bank heist, explosions, Iron Man. It’s like something out of a film. Also, well, Hydra.”

“They know?”

“The building got investigated and seeing as we took most the guys out, they hadn’t had time to destroy everything. There’s a definitive lack of information compared to what there would usually be so I’m assuming Hydra has someone on the inside covering for them but you can’t hide everything. Not anymore.”

Steve sighed. “How screwed are we?”

“Very. People are calling for answers. They don’t know that it’s specifically Hydra yet but someone operating like that in the US is enough for hackles to rise.”

“Got it. Press conference tomorrow. I’ll figure out what to say. You too, Tony. They’ll want someone from the fight itself.”

“Fair enough,” Tony capitulated, almost too easily, but James could tell he wasn’t really listening, already heading towards the elevator. No doubt, he wouldn’t have a speech prepared for tomorrow and Steve knew it.

“Everyone else, unwind. We’ve got a lot up ahead of us.” A pair of nods and another two people down, it was just Steve and James left in the room. Steve’s body almost folded over, as if a heavy weight had just been draped over his shoulders. But he was loose, built-up tension unravelling before James’ eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered delicately, eyes on the floor. “For all of this.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

“The fact that you actually believe that is probably worse.” Steve looked off into the far distance before he moved on. “I’ll bring you to my floor. I think we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

~*~

For the first time in a while, James was alone. Or as alone as he ever could be anymore. A shudder ran down his body, uncomfortable and loud, as he dumped soap into his hand and started scrubbing over his body. Steve had ordered him into the shower, with the words ‘you stink’ heavily implied and rather loudly - although unwittingly - heard. 

The temperature was scolding, almost punishing, but was still the best thing James had felt in years. It beat down on his back with a pressure he couldn’t remember existing before ( _ we didn’t have showers back then _ , he ignored). It took him lathering soap into his hair twice before he was interrupted again with a soft voice saying,  _ use the shampoo for your hair. It lathers better. It will make it easier to clean. _ James nodded, hoping that the intent would come across and rifled through the plethora of bottles (what was the point?) until he found one labelled shampoo. It was floral smelling, definitely feminine, but James used it anyway, liberally applying it to his hair and feeling it foam under his hands. When it drained, it came out brown. There was nothing more satisfying. (Another shrill shock ran through him at the ability to  _ feel _ things like that.)

Curious, he rifled through the other bottles, finding an amalgamation of things he’d never even heard of before. Exfoliator, conditioner, bubble bath, body wash, body cream, each one with their own types and scents. ‘Why do you have so many things in your shower?’

_ They’re mostly gifts. Or jokes. They bought them after I admitted I didn’t know what most of the stuff was. I only use the shampoo and body wash. _

‘I like them. They smell nice. What are the others for.’

_ Um, honestly, I’m not sure for some of them. I know the conditioner makes your hair soft. Bubble bath puts bubbles in your bath. _

‘Why would you want bubbles in your bath?’

_ I really couldn’t tell you. _

Hesitantly, he reached out for the condition and put a dollop in his flesh hand before running it over his hand. It had a different effect to the shampoo, despite feeling similar. It didn’t lather but rather smooth over his hair and made little difference afterwards. ‘Your condition doesn’t work.’

_ I think you have to wait until your hair is dry. _

‘Okay,’ James said and got out of the shower.

_ No! You have to wash it out, like soap. _

‘Oh.’ James got back in, put it back on full blast, revelling in the immediate heat, and washed it out. After that, Steve was silent, letting James do what he needed to do, right up until the moment James made his way back into the living room.

“I can dry your hair. You know, if you want,” he blurted immediately. He was down in the living area, sitting far too upright on the sofa to be comfortable, hands on his lap like a schoolboy. 

“I can use a towel just fine myself.”

“Oh, no. They’ve got hairdryers now. It’s easier if you let someone else do it.” A quick, silent conversation ensued before James made his way down the small two steps into the living area and sat down right in front of where Steve was on the sofa. With a small smile, Steve ran off to the bedroom, coming back with a terrifying-looking contraption that he plugged into the outlet by the TV, dragging the cable over to James.  _ This is going to be loud, _ he warned. James shuddered but nodded regardless, hardly flinching as Steve first made contact with his head.

There was an ease to this dance, one that could only come when you could predict the other’s moves. James didn’t need to be scared of Steve touching him when he knew the intention before it was even done. He didn’t need to cry when Steve finally got a brush and steadfastly tried to make his way through the knots of James’ hair. They made it a dance, where Steve pushed and backed-off in equal measure, drowned out by the whooshing drone of the hairdryer. 

_ I’m surprised, _ Steve says eventually, using the bond to talk over the hairdryer.

‘How so?’

_ That you’re this comfortable. What they did to you- _

‘I wouldn’t let anyone else do this to me.’

_ Me neither. It’s odd, this thing is…it’s vulnerable. And that makes me hate it and love it in equal measure. Like now, I don’t want to be saying this but you can hear it regardless so I’m just letting it be heard. It’s terrifying. If you hated me, I’d know straight away. You can’t mitigate rejection like this, or terror, or feelings. I know the effect of my every action. And you also know mine. I’ve never been like this with someone before. _

‘Me neither. I like it. The honesty. It is better than them. I can tell if you’re lying. You can’t do to me what they did.’

And didn’t it say something, that James was more scared of Hydra’s lies than their actions? Who cared what they’d done to him, it was what they’d  _ made him do  _ that made his stomach cramp down on food that wasn’t there to come back up.

_ I would never. _

‘I know. But it’s better to really know.’

_ Does this not scare you? _

‘Not in the same way it scares you. I’ve suffered worse. It scares me that I won’t really be able to hide. This is going to get a lot worse before it gets better, even I know that.’

_ How so? _

‘I’ve seen Hydra make many soldiers. I’ve seen what happens to the human mind. Every time, the soldier will be made and they are perfect. But then they start to struggle. They are in pain, they don’t understand what’s happening. Sometimes it’s months before they recover. Sometimes they are just shot.’

_ There are other soldiers? _

‘Not anymore.’

_ God, Buck- _

‘It’s okay. For now. I need to remember, I think, before I can feel anything about what has happened.’

_ You want to…? _

‘Not today. I want you to finish doing my hair.’

_ Bossy, _ Steve teased but James could hear the laughter in his thoughts and just leant back against Steve’s knees as the man desperately tried to learn how to deal with long hair, which ended with a consultation with JARVIS but a pretty decent result despite it.

James stood up at the end, sending Steve as good a smile as he could muster these days, and went to inspect himself in the bathroom mirror. “It’s soft,” he commented as Steve leant in the doorframe behind him.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“It’s different.”

“Good.”

“You know what’s been on my mind?”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Would that work?”

“Of course. I don’t want to pry, Buck. Not if I can help it. I can’t help a lot of things I hear but if it’s not my business, I won’t mention it. I’ll pretend I never heard it. Same goes both ways.”

“That sounds good. This will infuriate you. I do not remember a lot but I remember what you were like. In a way. It helps that you also remember it. Although,” James sent Steve a pointed look, “a lot different than I do.” 

“It’s fine.”

“It may be right now but it won’t be. A lot of the time. I don’t want to go into a headspace where I can close myself off.” James stopped. It was a sudden feeling, like lead on his tongue, but he just couldn’t get the words out anymore. It was tiring him, to speak so much after not speaking at all. It was easier to let Steve rummage through his mind a bit and end the sentence for himself.

“We’ll deal with this. Now, come on, I gotta get through some things. How about I introduce you to some wonders of the 21st Century?” Silently, Bucky assented and followed Steve back to the sofa, keeping his distance but relishing in the small point of contact where his toe brushed Steve’s thigh, as he watched shows he couldn’t hope to remember, drifting off next to New York’s everlasting light.

The last thing he could remember was Steve smiling down at him and what might have been a tear rolling down his cheek.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop! Another chapter. Next one will probably be slightly slower but hopefully soon anyway :) This is getting harder to write (Bucky's character is probably a little too complex XD) but it's still really fun. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated :)

“Captain! I would like to ask who the masked man was? And how is he affiliated with the Avengers?”

_ Don’t tell them. _

‘Yeah, I know,’ Steve thought back; his exasperation was written all over his face if Madison, his PR manager’s, pursed lips were anything to go by.

“He was a SHIELD agent tasked with taking down the operation happening within the bank.”

“And may I ask, what was this operation?”

“As of right now, that is classified, ma’am. But the public will be told as soon as the situation is fully resolved.”

“So the situation isn’t fully resolved?”

“No more follow up questions!” Madison bellowed, motioning to the next in the hoard. “You, in the green shirt!” That was the first bad sign.

“Who were the people of this ‘cell’ affiliated with, Captain?”

“Classified.” 

_ Didn’t the last woman just ask that? _

'They think if they frame the question slightly differently, I might just suddenly blurt out all the answers they want.’

_ They’re stupid. _

‘Well, you get used to it.’

“Next!”

“Captain, we were wondering whether Tony Stark is planning on making reparations for the damage caused to the bank?”

“As with all the Avengers’ missions, Stark pays for as many of the repairs as possible afterwards.”

“Next!”

“Captain, if you were there, do you think you could have taken the insurgent group down quicker?”

_ Why are all these questions so…inane? _

‘Don’t get me started.’

“Speculation is unnecessary. Iron Man and the SHIELD agent took down the cell just fine by themselves.”

The questions continued for another endless twenty minutes before Steve departed, tired and frustrated, making his way back to his apartment with what felt like the weight of the world on his back. Scanning his hand to unlock the door, he lumped into the apartment and let the door shut behind him, pressing his back against it and throwing his head back with a loud thump. 

“They are stupid.”

Steve smiled, feeling the tension seep from his shoulders. “Hey, Buck.”

“You don’t need to say hello. You’re in my head; you never leave.”

“Let me be normal for a bit, huh?” Bucky shrugged. He was standing almost menacingly in the centre of the room, just on the edge of the pit, with his arms folded and his face blank. Yet, despite his imposing posture, his hair let him down. Tangled and pressed into a bad position from the sofa, he looked almost comically dishevelled. “Stop it. I do not look funny.”

“You kinda do, pal.”

“Then fix it.” Steve let his smile grow and shut his eyes for just a moment. “Sure thing, pal, let me grab a brush.” Steve only ever used a comb for his own hair but one had been a part of the hairdryer set which, he was starting to realise, was almost a miracle gift, even if he had not seen it at the time. 

Bucky stayed put, only settling down on the sofa when Steve beckoned him over with the small, round brush, almost tacky in his pink, plastic glory, yet somehow sweet when running through Bucky’s mane.

“My hair is not a mane.”

“Didn’t say that.”

“Yeah, but you were thinking it.”

“Thought we were trying to stay out of each other’s heads?”

“You were thinking about  _ my _ hair,” Bucky said, like it made an iota of difference. Steve didn’t dignify it with a response, although his thoughts were surely enough, and started to detangle Bucky’s hair. It was an effort that ended with a lot of pained grunts and muttered apologies but in the end, it was worth it, if just to restore it to its previous shine. Steve was starting to think he had a thing for-

Oh shit.

“You think of me like that?” Bucky said immediately, whirling around so he was face to face with Steve, eyes level with his, something intense lurking beneath the blue.

“I- No, I mean- Yes- but- look, I don’t want to - you know - pressure you, or anything like that, or-“

“I do not want that.”

Steve sighed, his mind somewhat despondent, like he’d expected some sappy love story where the traumatised torture victim falls in love the day after they escape. “I know. It’s not right, anyway. Just…forget about it.”

“I can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered, burying his face in his hands. “This whole thing is-“ Steve’s hand dropped, his shoulders rising and falling steadily like he was trying to control something, to keep something inside that-

“You were right. I can’t do this. I can’t…not with…this isn’t-“

“You’re frustrated. Because your secret is out. You shouldn’t be. I don’t mind.”

“I know you don’t but yesterday, you were getting your entire mind wiped, Buck! That isn’t okay. I can’t just be…skipping around professing my attraction to-“

“You didn’t. You thought it privately. I just overheard. There are many things that I want to keep hidden too, but I’m not going to be able to. I am coming to terms with that.”

“How are you so…put together. You should be-“

“A wreck? Yeah, I probably should be. But I don’t know. I still feel…blank. I don’t remember anything bad yet. And I know it’s bad. But for now, I’m just me. With no memory of what they did or what they made me do.”

“Buck-“

“I’m happy with that, for now. It’s helping me get used to all this,” he said, motioning to the room around them. 

“You don’t deserve my baggage.”

“You’ll soon have to bear a lot more than I do. See this as an exchange.”

“It isn’t fair-“

“Life isn’t fair. The quicker you accept that, the easier it will be.”

“I know life isn’t fair. It’s rarely done anything good for me.”

“I know. But that’s what you’ve been given. This is what we’ve been given. We will have to learn to cope. Or-“ A gun in his mouth, pulling the trigger.

“That is not an option.”

“I know. So we cope.”

“We could talk to Stark. Get him to look at the connection…or not. Sorry. I didn’t think that through.”

“It’s fine. Just no examinations. Not yet. I know you trust them, but I don’t yet. You’re an optimist. I need to scope them out first.”

“Sure thing. But they really are-“

“I  _ know _ . Just let me do this myself?”

“Of course.” Bucky smiled, thinking-

“I am  _ not _ always stubborn.”

“I know. That’s why I was feeling happy.”

“You were surprised.”

“Yes. Because you are usually very stubborn.”

“So are you,” Steve shot back. Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You are!”

“Evaluate this conversation and come back to me.” With Steve spluttering, looking half-way to a fistfight he’d never dare start, Bucky stood up and glided into the kitchen with preternatural steadiness. He used so little movement for each step, none of it wasted, creating somewhat of an unreal but beautiful walk.

_ Steve- _ Bucky warned.

“I can’t just turn it off!” Steve shouted over the back of the sofa, frowning. Clearly, he still hadn’t gotten over the whole revelation thing. But he would, eventually. 

“You are hungry,” Bucky announced, “you will eat and then go see the team.”

“Bossy.” Bucky narrowed his eyes. “In a good way?” When Bucky smiled, it wasn’t natural - or even bright - but it was better than his scowl and that was beautiful-

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Bucky’s smile grew. 

Well, apparently not all his leery thoughts were bad.

“I might start enjoying the flattery.”

“Why do brains not have an off switch?”

“They do. They just don’t have an on switch afterwards.”

Steve just sighed.

~*~

“This is a mess, Steve.” Natasha was staring at him, although her usual flat features had morphed into something at least somewhat worried. Steve never believed that what she was showing was anything but performed but there had to be a hint of sincerity under the surface. He was sure of it.

“What else was I supposed to do? Hydra was torturing him.”

“And now they want him back. They’re coming for us.”

“This Tower is the most defensible in New York, hell, even the world.”

“So you’re never going to leave? Ever? Just stay in here until you turn crazy. Never go on a mission again, put down the shield.”

“We’ll stay until we have a plan to take down Hydra.”

“We need information,” Bruce sighed, “we can’t work from nothing.”

“Buck?” Bucky shook his head, hair falling in front of his face, masking whatever myriad of expressions flitted across his face. But lucky for them, Steve could read his mind.

‘You alright if I tell them?’

_ Go ahead. _

“He’s remembering, but it’s piecemeal and unreliable. We’re better off finding another source.”

“To do that, we still need information,” Natasha argued. “This isn’t feasible.”

“We’ve had worse odds,” Steve pointed out.

“We have,” Tony said, “but this is different. This isn’t a big battle. This is stealth and spy stuff and no matter how many stealth operatives we have on the team, that’s just not who the Avengers are. You were at the press conference. Whatever we do is in the public eye, with more questions than you could imagine. What would happen if a phone camera spotted us at a Hydra hideout? We’d be outed immediately.”

“Natasha is the best spy in the world. We can figure it out,” Steve argued vehemently. 

“And we will,” Natasha said, “I’m just pointing out the position you’ve put us in.” Steve wasn’t going to apologise for that, not if it meant getting Bucky out of that hell, but he had the decency to look contrite. “We also need to think about James.” Steve’s head shot up and he ignored Natasha’s muttered, “of course that’s what gets you listening”. With her lips pursed, she continued. “Hydra’s after him more than anyone else. He needs protection. Especially if we’re out of the Tower.”

_ I do not need protection. _

Steve didn’t say that aloud.

_ I am not a baby. _

‘I know. But it’s tactical.’

_ I can read your mind, you trying to talk over your thoughts is not going to work. _

“Stop scowling at each other and get out of your heads,” Tony complained, “it’s like Star Trek in here.”

“He doesn’t think he needs protection.”

“Can’t he speak for himself?” Natasha asked scathingly. 

“I do not need protection,” Bucky deadpanned. 

Natasha just rolled her eyes. “You do,  _ Soldat _ . Hydra can overpower you, skills or not.”

“Not within the Tower.”

She narrowed her eyes. “No matter what Steve says, there's always a chance that the Soldier is leading Hydra into the Tower. Getting them in from the inside.”

“I would be able to  _ see _ that!” Steve argued vehemently.

Natasha ignored him, turning to Bucky. “I don’t trust you. Just so you know.”

“Good. I taught you well then,  _ Natalia _ .” She grit her teeth, seconds from baring them at him like a wild animal (or a small red-headed girl, burnt by fear). 

“It’s suspicious. How calm you are. Just so you know.”

“I have taken note of the security measures, as well as their possible methods of tracking me. They have been disabled.”

“What?” That was Stark.

“Trackers were placed in my arm. They have been removed.”

Steve’s eyes widened. ‘When the hell did you do that?’

_ Whilst you slept. _

‘Great. Next time, wake me up.’

Bucky’s voiced answer was non-committal but his head told Steve, point-blank,  _ no. _ Steve wanted to argue with a desperate ferocity but was shut off quickly. Bucky wasn’t going to do this again. Steve fumed at the dismissal but didn’t bring it up. Wouldn’t bring it up, until they were alone in their room again.

“How do you know they’re all gone?” Natasha asked.

“I don’t.” Wasn’t that great? 

_ Your head is being loud. _

‘And you’re beginning to get on my nerves.’

“Is anyone else getting really bored with the whole Cap-looking-into-space thing because I am,” Tony sniped, boredom written all over his face. For all his focus on the mission, he had lost it quickly. It was a surprise to no one; Tony didn’t like to feel useless but espionage wasn’t even close to being one of his many talents. Tony was  _ made _ to be loud. “At least Terminator over there always looks like that but dear old Cap looks like he’s about to go live on the streets and mutter to himself.”

“Don’t make fun of the homeless,” Steve said automatically.

“Oh great, you hear  _ that _ .”

“Shut up, Tony.”

“Oh, well isn’t someone snippy today.” Steve pretty much growled, prowling towards Tony with the grace of a tiger and just as much ferocity. 

“Knock it off.”

“What are you gonna do about it?”

Steve’s fists clenched to white and he was about to show Stark just what he could do when Natasha intervened. “Okay, clearly now isn’t the time to have this talk. Steve, go to the gym and don’t come back until you’re not spitting blood. Tony, lab.”

“Why am  _ I _ getting sent away?”

“Tony.”

“Fine, fine! Just know that I think this is unfair,” he shouted behind him as he went to the elevator and immediately engrossed himself in his work in his Starkpad. Steve waited until his elevator was gone before waiting for it to come back to him and going down to the gym himself, trying to force Bucky out of his head. It wasn’t perfect but it was working to an extent, mostly accomplished by thinking about static constantly until Bucky got annoyed enough that he just butted out himself.

They had a lot to figure out.

~*~

With Steve and Tony gone, only Bruce, Natasha, Clint and Bucky were left. Bruce left immediately, tense and haggard, and Clint hovered for at least a minute before Natasha sent him away with a silent wave of her hand. Bucky was almost impressed with how much control she had over the group. He knew her as the Widow: compliant, subservient and ruthless. But this was Natasha at her full potential, able to commandeer a room, to use her skills for something other than her master’s desires.

Bucky didn’t know whether that gave him hope or terrified him.

_ That shouldn’t- _

‘Keep punching things, Rogers.’ Bucky didn’t know where the words came from but they felt familiar; not a memory but something of a tic anyway. Not even the words themselves, but the tone, the expression, the intent behind it. A lot of things felt like that nowadays. A whole lotta deja vu. 

“James,” Natasha intoned, her body carefully still. He mimicked her, letting the Soldier’s training drip in. It was useful and he wasn’t going throw that away because  _ someone _ thought it meant he was-

_ That’s not what I- _

‘You’re supposed to be punching. Stop listening.’

“Are you talking to him?” She asked.

“Kind of,” he replied vaguely. Seemed they were both on the defence here. Natasha changed her tactics quickly enough. “I wanted to talk to you. About before. What you remember.”

“The Red Room?”

“Partially, yes.”

“I don’t remember much. But what would you like to know?”

“Not that first. I wanted to talk about Steve.”

“Go ahead, but know he’s probably listening. He’s nosy.”

_ I’m not- _

‘Punching.’

“That’s fine,” she said but Bucky could tell it wasn’t. Yet they both knew arguing about it wouldn’t make a difference; Hydra had fucked with them, they’d just have to deal with it. “I want to know whether you’re going to hurt him.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Even if they asked you to?”

“They don’t have control-.” Except they did, didn’t they? The trigger words - not known by the Americans, but still around in the depths of the German and Russian divisions - could force him to pull down the iron curtain like it was silk. He’d be cut off from Steve and pliant with his masters.

If they asked him to hurt Steve, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

_ Bucky- _

‘Shut up.’

“They do, don’t they? What is it? Words? Sounds?”

“Trigger phrases.” He wouldn’t have even admitted that aloud - didn’t know if he could - if it wasn’t for Steve in the back of his head, listening carefully to each thought and word and feeling. If he didn’t say it now, Steve would bring it up later. He wasn’t in control whilst Steve had the information.

_ You’ll always have con- _

‘You know that’s a lie. So just don’t.’ Bucky felt the strength of the anger clench his gut but ignored it. Feelings were insubstantial, they weren’t worth his time. 

_ Th- _

‘Don’t say a word.’

“Lukin?” He nodded cautiously. Flashes of faces he’d thought he’d forgotten backhanded him, throwing him off guard. The name brought with it a plethora of terrors: the chair, a knife, procedures, taunting…

_ Torture. _

Bucky grit his teeth, denial running thick. They were making him into a soldier. Order through pain. He didn’t remember asking for it but he couldn’t remember asking them to stop either. They were just upgrading him, making him more weapon than human for the sake of their ideology.

Plenty of people were ideological; he didn’t know if he could even fault them for that.

_ They were totalitarian. _

‘They wanted order.’

_ Through murder. They were evil. _

‘I know. But are we any better?’

_ We’re trying to help people. _

‘And have people died in the process?’

Steve shut up at that. 

“James!” His head snapped up. “Finally. I’ve been calling your name for ages.”

“Sorry. Steve got angry.”

“About what?”

“Do you think the Avengers are good?”

“We’re helping people,” she said, like they were all just reciting a mantra.

“Hydra think they’re helping people.”

“And they use horrific methods.”

“And you don’t?”

“We do what’s necessary.”

“Don’t they think that too?”

Natasha swallowed. “Why are you here? Did Hydra send you?”

“No. I escaped them.”

“You seem to be pretty supportive of their cause.”

“No, they’re evil. I’m just wondering whether you’re any better.” Natasha finally had the decency to look scared. Her new life was built on SHIELD and the Avengers, on the idea that they were good, that they were doing the right thing. If they weren’t…

“It’s not perfect, but we’re trying.”

Bucky smiled, feeling the force of it around his lips. It no doubt looked unnatural but it was the best he could muster. “You have lost your touch, Natalia,” he said in Russian, diverting the conversation away from him. “You used to be so good at interrogation.”

“I got the answers I needed.”

“Not as many as you wanted, though.”

“I just need to know where your loyalties lie. And whether Steve’s safe.” And something she wasn’t telling him. He could see it, even if he didn’t know what it was. What else had he said?

“My loyalty is to Steve.”

“Good,” she said succinctly. “Now, what are these trigger words?” 

“You know I’m not going to give them to you.”

“You should. For Steve. If you flip out, I’ll be able to stop you.”

“And why should I trust you to be the person to do that,  _ Natalia _ .”

“Because Steve won’t. So I’m your best option.”

Bucky got closer, his face blank. “Don’t use Steve to control me. It won’t work. I have not been my own person for 70 years. I’m not letting that go because of an irrational fear of hurting Steve.”

“Tell that to me again when you’ve actually seen the harm you could do to him.”

“Because that’s what happened with you? When you got out? I’m not you, Natasha. I had a life before this, one that I may not remember very well but, well, I’ve got Steve in my head for that. I don’t think Steve is the enemy. If I lash out, it won’t be at him.”

“Who will it be then?”

He scowled, but even that felt fake, like he was reciting from Hydra’s script. A man made to look like a murderer but was really only the weapon. “You were my mission once, don’t forget that.” 

Natasha bared her teeth. (He could hear Steve, distantly, urging him not to fight Natasha like this, to trust her and the rest of the team. But Bucky wasn’t an idiot. He was in Steve’s head, there was no reason to distrust him. But everyone else? He had every reason to be wary of them, no matter what Steve thought.) She looked up at him, green eyes locked on blue and with carefully constructed delicacy whispered, “sputnik.”

Bucky’s body fell, paralysed. His mind screamed but his body was silent, collapsing onto the unforgiving floor. Steve howled in his head but Bucky couldn’t focus on it. He was facing the floor, couldn’t move to look up, but he knew Natasha was there.

“We were taught to be scared of you. You were the nightmare of the Red Room, used to give little girls nightmares. So when I burned my past down, found out more about you, I found the one way to not be scared of you anymore. I found a book, full of triggers, and found the one I needed. Burnt the book so you can thank me for that, but I still had this one. Just in case.” She paused and took in a careful breath. “Don’t threaten me again.”

Bucky flailed and screamed but nothing happened; stuck in his head, his whole consciousness was clouded by panic. His heart pounded wildly, his lungs heaving in breaths. The one thing that he could control whilst the rest of his muscles collapsed.

He heard frantic footsteps and distant yelling but he couldn’t hear it over the static buzz. He could barely even feel it when Steve rolled him onto his back, bringing Bucky’s head into his lap and carefully looking for injuries. 

_ You have to calm down. I’ll get you out of this. _

But he couldn’t. That wasn’t how the triggers worked. God knows how long this would last. He couldn’t even remember this one being used, or taught or…

“Soldat, stand.” Silently, carefully controlled, he stood with a perfectly economical use of his muscles. “Sputnik,” the man said calmly. Nothing happened. He was thrown to the floor and a stun baton struck his cranium until his muscles went slack, twitching restlessly against the concrete.

“Soldat, stand,” the man repeated. Perfectly controlled, he stood again. “Sputnik.” He was thrown down and a stun baton was put to his head.

“Soldat, stand.”

“Sputnik.”

Again.

“Stand!”

“Sputnik”

Again!”

“Stand!”

“Sputnik!”

“STOP IT!”

“Buck- Bucky, come on, you’re okay. It’s okay. That was in the past. It’s just a memory. It’s not real. Just a memory,” Steve chanted, hands gripping the sides of his head, as if to protect him from the stun baton as it struck. Bucky clung to it, relished in the pressure as his mind tried to stun him over and over and over-

“Steve,” he croaked, surprised that the words came out, the muscles around his throat tight as they regained use.

“Yeah, it’s me. It’s fine. Just a memory.”

“She- she-“

“She won’t ever do that again. I’m so sorry, Buck. I didn’t know that was going to happen. I trusted her-“

“She just didn’t trust me. She was scared of me.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Bucky didn’t make reassurances that it was fine, not when Steve could hear exactly what he was thinking, and instead regained slow control over his limbs until he felt strong enough to sit up. He was tired, too tired for someone who’s muscles had gone entirely slack. He collapsed back against Steve’s shoulder and almost smiled when Steve’s arms quickly wrapped around him, pulling him in close.

Was this what it meant to be more than friends? If so, maybe it wasn’t all that bad.

_ Now look who’s having inappropriate thoughts. _

‘Not inappropriate. You like them.’

_ Fine, maybe I do, _ Steve capitulated and Bucky could feel his smile, even if he could see it. When Steve was smiling, Bucky almost felt like he could too. 

He didn’t realise he was crying until Steve was wiping it away, thumb brushing carefully against Bucky’s cheek. It was almost too intimate yet Bucky craved it anyway; his whole body recoiling at the thought of someone touching an area so close to his eyes, yet desperate for the careful brush of Steve’s hand. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered. 

“We’ll fix it.”  _ The words won’t be able to hurt you _ . “We’ll find a way.”

“They trained them into me, Steve,” he sighed. “I don’t know if I have the capacity to train my way out of them.”

“You do.”  _ You have to. _

“Where did Natasha go?”

“I don’t know. I just sent her away. You have the energy to get back to our floor? She doesn’t have access anymore.” He nodded, carefully getting to his feet, arm around Steve’s shoulders for support. As they walked to their floor, Bucky finally asked, “why am I like this?”

“Like what?” Steve asked, even though he knew full well. But they weren’t supposed to be prying, were they? (‘Yeah, that was at you, Steve.’)

“Like it doesn’t affect me. I can’t…I don’t feel angry. Or sad. Or panicked. Not until Natasha said the words. I’m not even sure if I feel fear.”

“They took that away from you. You’ll get it back.”

“You can’t know that for sure.”

“Then I goddamn hope so.”

“I feel calm, with you. Sometimes I even laugh. It’s like you’re the only thing that brings anything true out of me. I can act. I know how I’m supposed to be. I see what I was like before. But when you’re not there, everything just feels…distant.”

“I don’t get it either, Buck. No one’s been in your situation before. And definitely, no one’s had this thing that we have either. This is all new.”

“I’m confused. All the time.”

“Better than feeling nothing.” It was sad because it was true.

The elevator finally made it to their floor and Bucky felt the full weight of exhaustion on his shoulders. It was new, to feel so desperate for sleep whilst his muscles could still run another hundred laps. He wanted to get in Steve’s bed and never get out.

Steve brought him to the living area instead, laying Bucky down on the sofa, his head in Steve’s lap again. “It’ll be okay, Buck,” he whispered, hands retaking their position on either side of Bucky’s head. Protective. Warm.

“Will it?” He said simply. He knew in his heart, it probably wouldn’t be.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watching season 2 of Agent Carter so couldn't resist putting some vague references in there if you want to squint! Hope you enjoy, sorry about the wait :)

Steve woke up to screaming, ringing like a siren’s song and reeling him in as if he had a hook in his heart, its repetitive lull as inviting as its grating, if not primal, sound. He flew from his own bed, slamming doors open on his way until he was in Bucky’s room. He could hear something in his mind, distantly, further away than it would be if Bucky were awake, enough to know it was a dream anyway, but couldn’t quite make out anything except the distinct shape of fear. 

Panic gripped his chest, pumping his heart as hard and fast as it would before a battle. This easily could be if he went about this wrong. It was fairly common knowledge, especially among the Tower’s residents, that waking someone up from a nightmare normally wasn’t the best option. 

He ran through his options quickly. One, he could wake Bucky up and be prepared for a fight. Two, he could try shouting at him and hoping the noise would wake him up, despite the slamming doors not making an iota of difference. Three, hope to get through to him in his mind.

Option three sounded much better than the former. 

He heaved in a deep breath and took a seat in the door frame, not willing to lose concentration during this and fall down when his mind didn’t quite connect to his own body. Not a problem, so far, but he’d felt it on the edges of possibility. 

With a calm learnt from somewhere that wasn’t his own head (and wasn’t  _ that _ something to glean from this), he delved inside. It was almost second nature already to roll back into the darkness, like a more in-depth mindfulness exercise where instead of becoming entirely aware of yourself, you had to become aware of two, co-existing selves. It was easier to put a picture to it, the same as the hotel: to make it a long, dark tunnel that he clambered through, slowly leaving his own consciousness behind. 

A tunnel that led right into said hotel.

He knew what it was as soon as he saw it. Whatever this nightmare was, it wasn’t fiction. He heard the pounding of doors above him, flying open before slamming back shut. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a perfect recollection; rather, it was a painful concoction of long-forgotten and no doubt agonising memories, of which Bucky was flying through at a rapid pace.

Steve needed to catch up to him. 

Ignoring the restless silence, he pounded towards the elevators and frantically hit the button that flashed an ominous red. Convenient. It was probably a warning but still, when had Steve ever listened to one of  _ those _ ?

As usual, the elevator doors opened back up immediately but that didn’t help at all, not when the chaos reared its ugly head. Despite his usually worse senses, a protective instinct in him told him to stay back: to assess the situation and not follow his usual moves. Strategy; the key to a good mission, even if it was cobbled together in the middle of the battlefield with nothing but inspiring words and dogged determination. 

And then he saw Bucky through the darkness and threw away all good thought. ( _ As usual _ ). It was the first time he’d seen Bucky in his head and he found himself wishing he hadn’t; he didn’t look like a person at all. He looked exactly like the ghost he was made to be. The Winter Soldier tac-gear hid his form behind bulky firearms and swathes of black. But the picture wasn’t even really formed. Like you’d expect of a ghost, he flickered in the light, like he was both present and absent. His edges were blurred, like he was clutching his seams shut and if he just let go, his body would finally dissipate to nothing. His life would end as quickly as he’d found it. 

Then he turned to Steve. The old, horrifying mask covered the lower half of his face but his eyes were right there, bright and  _ real _ . And absolutely, irrevocably terrified. 

“Bucky!” Steve screamed, even though he didn’t have to. His mind was silent, even if the image was loud, like neither could drudge of the effort to finish the picture. 

People underestimated just how terrifying silence could be.

His words pierced through nothing, as silent as the rest of the picture. But Bucky stared, followed his lips, and frowned. If not for the mask, Steve wondered if he would see Bucky’s lips shape “who the hell is Bucky?”

Steve did what he was best at: spontaneous planning. Which normally meant he went with his first idea. Which was often the stupidest. Good thing for him, Bucky always followed his stupid plans. 

Ignoring the slamming of doors behind him, the murky darkness of their contents spilling into the hallway (brushed metal and terrifying claw marks in the walls, as if something had tried to pry through the metal in hopes of escape), Steve ran forward and grabbed Bucky by the arm and  _ tugged _ . Bucky was strong, and violent, but Steve had a plan. Bucky took the first swing, metal fist implanting itself in the already torn up wall. The momentum sent him hurtling forwards so Steve stepped backwards and out of its trajectory, sending Bucky sprawling if only for two or so steps before he righted himself. And then he let him do it again, and again, and again, until Bucky had cornered him in the elevator, metal fist raised to make the final move with a low growl so aggressive that it finally punctured the petrifying silence.

“Sorry, pal, I don’t want to do this,” Steve murmured before he finally did what he promised he’d never do. He fought his best friend. Swinging his right fist up in a painful uppercut, he threw Bucky towards the closed doors and in the short window of recovery time, pressed the button to go down to the first floor.

The oldest memories.

When the doors opened, Bucky didn’t move, blocking Steve’s exit. Not a problem yet. Steve tackled him, sending them both flying backwards and into the neat hallway, still with lines of doors either side, although this matched the impersonal tone of the hotel itself, likely because the earliest memories were so vague that they didn’t have a tone to them at all. It was all beige walls with a neat trim and pristine marble floor, illuminated by the large, hanging chandelier that Steve had apparently conjured up this time to make it look all the fancier. He didn’t dare look to where it was connected; thinking about that would likely break the illusion.

And Jesus Christ, he’d gotten so distracted by the goddamn chandelier, he’d left himself completely vulnerable to Bucky’s attacks. If this wasn’t in his own head, he would be worried about days of bruising. As it was, he worried that if Steve passed out in Bucky’s mind, there would be dire consequences. Lucky for him, he didn’t pass out easily. Unlucky for him, neither did Bucky.

Oh, option four, knock Bucky the hell out and hope that meant he went to sleep and didn’t just…die.

Okay, scrap option four. Don’t let Bucky be knocked out. Now wasn’t the time for experimentation. 

Bucky reared forwards, fist smashing into the side of Steve’s skull. Nothing broke, not whilst Steve didn’t want it to, but he couldn’t help but feel the jarring pain that came with the hit anyway. In here, instinct prevailed over logic; if he thought it would hurt, he’d feel it before he had time to stop it. Bucky came at him again, using his distraction to get Steve in the gut, sending him flying towards the doors on the left, his back hitting the first door with a resounding slap.

Perfect.

Carefully, trying to focus on releasing the pain, he reached up to the doorknob and opened it. Nothing. A broken memory. Well, he was just going to have to try again. As Bucky threw himself towards Steve, he ducked to the side and towards the next door, pushing it open: darkness.

Another.

Another.

Bucky remained on his tail, continuing to growl like a feral animal unable to catch its prey.

Another.

Another.

And then-

“Hi, sweetheart. I’m you’re ma. Yes I am. I’m your mama-“ Possibly. The words were garbled as was the image. It was barely anything at all. Almost like the image behind your eyes when you looked at the sun.

“Stop it,” Bucky growled, but he’d stopped anyway, frozen with his fists still in fists. The metal arm whirred incessantly but it didn’t move either. 

“That’s you’re ma, Buck. That’s a memory.”

“No,” he growled again, his eyes frantic and searching, like he was trying to find the thing that was holding him back, forcing him not to move, the restraints he had to break. But there were none. 

Steve opened the next door: blank too.

But the next, the last one, held something stronger. This one clearer, like Bucky was older when he’d tucked this one away. At least four, if not a little older. 

“Ma! Ma!” 

“What is it, James?”

“I wan’ it.”

“You want the cookie, James?”

“Ya! Cookie!” 

“What do you say?”

“Pwease! I wan’ the cookie.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely. Here you go, Bucky.”

“Thanks you, mama.” A confused little boy took the cookie out his laughing mother’s hand, munching on it with delight.

“Of course you remember a cookie,” Steve sighed with an impish grin. He turned to Bucky, still stock still, who was staring at the forming images with unalterable interest. 

“That’s my ma?”

“Yeah, Buck. That’s her.” 

“Oh.” A clamour sounded throughout the hotel and suddenly Steve was thrown back into his own head, faced with the sight of Bucky sitting upright in bed, evidently distressed.

“Bucky?” He called out softly, lifting himself off the floor with the doorframe, remaining kneeling when his movement caused Bucky to tense. 

“You were in my head.”

“Yeah. You were having a nightmare. I wanted to help.”

“You opened the doors.”

“Just the early ones. The rest were you.”

“I forgot my ma.” Bucky’s eyes showed the devastation his body didn’t, something dangerously guilty sparkling in his blue eyes. 

“They made you forget everything.”

“I remember her now. All of it. How she-“ Bucky stopped, eyes trailing towards the horizon, his face morphing from devastation to apathy. Somehow, Steve found that so much worse. 

“How she what, Buck?”

He got no reply. 

“Are you okay?”

No reply.

“Do you want me to go?”

Not even a flinch.

Then suddenly, “thank you. Don’t do it again.”

Mixed messages.

“I was just trying to-“

“It worked. You were lucky.”

“If I can help-“

“No.” Bucky swung his legs off the bed and strode out of the room without looking back, brushing past Steve on his way out. Steve didn’t move, prying at the iron curtain in the way of him trying to figure out what Bucky was thinking. He caught the edges but they only made it worse. Bucky didn’t seem to know any better than Steve what he was thinking.

Great.

~*~

“We need an  _ actual _ plan,” Natasha started with, her body loose but her eyes keenly aware of the atmosphere around her. “ _ Steve _ ,” she said when no one replied.

“I’m not talking to you right now.” Steve was pacing back and forth; his eyes kept flickering to the door before going right back to the floor. 

“You’re being childish.”

“And you’re being naive if you expect that everything’s just going to be fine, Nat!” 

“He can’t be trusted.”

“Oh, so that’s what this is? It’s not about your own fear? About the fact that you tense every time he comes close? How you don’t want anyone to deal with this better than you did because that makes you feel bad. Boo-hoo, Nat. Now stop lying.” Natasha practically reeled back. She wasn’t an easy read and honestly, Steve wouldn’t have even caught on if not for Bucky. He hadn’t quite figured out the whole situation, even Bucky seemed a little foggy on that, but Bucky knew Natasha was scared of him. Very scared. And somehow, at the same time, just as jealous.

“Did he tell you that?”

“He didn’t have to. Give up the game and don’t go near him.”

“What do you want me to do, Rogers?”

“I want you to get over this and work with us on this.”

“Do you know what the Red Room told us about him, Steve?”

“What?”

“That he was nothing but a puppet on his master's strings. That he would trick you, kill you, slaughter your family without remorse. He would lie and steal and purge and was merciless when doing so. They told us about him to give us nightmares. But they weren’t lying.  _ They were saying exactly what they saw. _ ”

“I am in his head! You think I wouldn’t know if I hadn’t broken those goddamn strings? Why don’t you trust me on this?”

“I have been a part of a training scheme not even close to the level of psychotic as his. If you were in my head, I don’t think you would be able to tell a truth from a lie. I don’t expect he is any different.”

He groaned. “You’re being stubborn. He can’t hide from me. That’s not how this bond works. I can go  _ into _ his head. I can  _ be _ him. He can be me. This isn’t telepathy. This is sharing a mind.”

They stared at each other, eyes narrowed, but neither made another move to speak. Stark and Banner had already decided to move away and confer by themselves in the corner (for once, quietly. It was almost a miracle). Barton watched with a wary eye but didn’t stick up for either of them. 

“I’m leaving!” Tony shouted obnoxiously loud. “Unfortunately, I have a press conference to attend.”

Steve whirled. “You didn’t tell me it was now.”

“Of course not. I don’t need your input, Cap.”

“Tony-“

“Bye!” And he was gone. Great. 

“Natasha’s right, we need a plan,” Barton said, as if the last five minutes hadn’t even happened. “This is Hydra. We can’t just leave them be because we’ve taken their biggest weapon away.”

“Of course not,” Steve agreed. 

“I think we need to talk about something else first,” Banner interrupted nervously, looking down at his blank tablet like it held the key to the universe. 

“What is it, Dr Banner?” Steve asked.

“If Hydra created this mind link between you and Barnes then it’s unlikely that he’s their biggest weapon. That kind of technology…it’s huge. Dangerous. And it won’t be the end of it. Between Barnes’ programming and the link, they show the most adept knowledge of the brain on this planet. That gives them an advantage we can’t hope to keep up with.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Possible coercion of the masses. It’s been seen before but not with complete success. Normally it only works on one person at a time. Or, if used on a group, only to cause a certain - usually violent - reaction. And also the ability to programme more people like Barnes. And if they’re willing subjects, that might make them all the more dangerous.”

“So we prepare for the worst?”

“We might not be able to prepare at all,” Banner said, fidgeting anxiously. 

Steve sighed, clutching his temple in his hand. “There has to be something we can do.”

“I’ll look into the archives, look for other sorts of similar coercion, maybe try and run a few stereotypes. If we can replicate what they’ve done, there’s a chance we can undo it,” Banner said, although he looked cynical. Steve didn’t care. If there was hope, they had to hold onto it. Hopelessness was worse than any pain. “Natasha, would you help with the Russian translations?” Banner asked. It was a kindness, in a way. JARVIS could do plenty, if not all, the translation. He just didn’t want to leave Natasha and Steve in the same room.

That just left Steve and Barton. “Do you think what Nat did was right?” Steve couldn’t help but ask.

“Of course not,” Barton said. “I know that kind of control and it should never be used. On anyone. But you should talk to her. See her side of things. It’s more complicated than you think.”

“She almost killed him.”

“She was terrified. Look, I’m not taking sides here, Cap, but you’re gonna have to clean this up if we want any chance at fighting Hydra and winning. You know that better than anyone.”

Steve nodded. “We need to find out Hydra’s plans. You think you can help?”

“I’m a spy, Cap, of course I can.” For some reason, he kept forgetting that. Natasha exuded ‘spy’ outside of a mission. Unplaceable, unreadable and disquietingly still, she was the perfect blank slate to mould into whatever the mission required. Clint was something else. He already had too much of a personality. He was memorable, when in a good mood. But maybe that was it. Make yourself memorable one way and no one would guess it was you when you were anything else. Steve reminded himself to be careful around both of them.

“Good. Look for anything, small or big. Who’s a part of Hydra. Where they are. Anything.” Steve didn’t have much hope for that, seeing as Stark had been looking for a month and had found next to nothing outside of Project Insight (technically just a SHIELD project) and the Winter Soldier project (of which they had little to no information whilst Bucky remained without his memories). 

“You got it, Cap.” Clint jumped off the sofa and headed to the elevator but before the doors opened, he turned around. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to look in Bucky’s brain.”

~*~

Before they could do anything drastic, Steve had another job to do. He turned on the TV, standing behind the sofa with his fists clutching the soft, velvety texture. Bucky sat in front of him, staring at the screen with distaste.  _ Do we have to watch this? _ Bucky asked.

“We’ve missed most of it, but he always makes the biggest blunders towards the end. I need to know what he says.”

_ You seem tense. _

“That’s because I am. If he says something about you-“

“Would he?”

“I’m really not sure.”

They both turned towards the screen, Bucky evidently more anxious than before. Tony stood behind the lectern, calm and collected but with a shifty look in his eyes. He was up to something. Steve just needed to figure out what.

“Mr Stark-“

“Call me Tony,” Tony leered at the young reporter. An act, Steve knew, seeing as Tony and Pepper were currently (although that could easily be temporarily) together. Still, it set Steve on edge to see him try to put on the mask of his old self to try and cover up the rest of the chaos. But Tony was a genius and he knew what it would do. A Stark scandal well placed in the middle of this, real or not, would divert eyes away.

“Tony then,” the reporter stated, somewhere between flustered and receptive, “in light of recent events, do you think America is under threat from more than just Islamic extremism?”

“I think we always have been,” Tony answered, “but in this case, I don’t believe it will be a repeat incident. It was a small, fractured terrorist cell that wanted to be seen. It won’t be able to again.”

“Do you have any more information on the terrorist cell?”

“I will tell you the same as our good old friend Cap did. Classified. Didn’t I say that earlier too? I’m almost sure I did.” The reporter scowled, now looking far away from flustered, but would no doubt fall for Tony’s charms if he laid it on thick again.

“When will you be able to reveal the identity of the man working with you?” Another journalist asked, when the last one was dismissed.

“Likely never. For his and his relatives' safety.” 

Bucky snorted quietly.

The questions continued in the same line for a while. The whole thing ran for roughly the same time as Steve’s had, with the questions becoming more inane as they ran in circles. Most of the questions given to Tony had already been given to Steve; there wasn’t much new to figure out.

It was when they were closing up that the moderator pointed out a person in the back: a tall man in a dark suit, his fair hair and eyes giving him a deceptively kind look, whilst the small smirk gave him away as an asshole. Or maybe that was just Steve.

_ Not just you. _

“Hi, I’m from Conspiracy Nation,” Tony suddenly looked like he was about to throw a punch, “and I wanted your say on the idea that’s spreading that the man you were working with was, in fact, a communist spy.” Normally, it would be an outrageous idea, one that they used for absolutely anyone they weren’t familiar with, a still lingering leftover from the Red Scare, even so long after the time itself. Now, it was hitting a little too close to home. 

“Do you have a source for this information?” Tony deflected, clearly debating outright lying or veering a little too close to the truth. Either would deter the press. Either he said Bucky was, in fact, a Russian spy and like with most things involving Tony Stark, they’d play it out as a joke. Or, he outright lied and no one would be any the wiser. That was the genius of Tony Stark.

“Many people have been trying to match the man’s face to other conspiracies. So far, he’s thought to have been involved in multiple assassinations. JFK,” they  _ always _ brought up JFK, “and Roosevelt.” Okay, he just died of a stroke. Were they really trying to say he’d been  _ assassinated? _ The man paused for an obnoxiously long second. “Your parents.”

Tony’s eyes practically bugged out of his head, his hands gripping the lectern in a white-knuckled grip. “You think I worked with a man that  _ killed my parents _ ?” 

‘Shit,’ Steve thought, ‘this is so bad.’

_ I think I might have actually been involved with two of those, _ Bucky revealed, his whole body tense and his eyes focused on the horizon, something akin to guilt lingering in the blue. “Steve, I think the conspiracy guy’s actually right.”

“No one will believe him. He’s known for outlandish claims and this is no different to the usual ones. He’s just extremely lucky to have come across an actual conspiracy.”

“What would you say to those claims, Mr Stark,” the man asked, looking down at his notepad.

“Or he’s Hydra,” Bucky murmured in the silence.

“Shit,” Steve muttered. “Wait, you killed Howard-?”

“I’d say that if the Winter Soldier killed my parents, he’s going to pay.”

It was like he was looking right at Bucky, his eyes focused on the camera lense. Then chaos erupted. People shouted over each other as they each tried to get the first scoop on who the ‘Winter Soldier’ was and whether he was on their side and whether-

“I told you it always goes to shit in the end,” Steve said dejectedly, looking pale.

“How bad is it?”

“That they know your alias? We’re working under the presumption that Hydra already knows you’re here with us, seeing as Tony was the one that helped you. Him revealing that isn’t giving any more information to them. In terms of the public, Tony’s going to have to do damage control. If these files are online, presuming that’s how the conspiracy theorists got them and not that they’re all Hydra, Tony needs to block the access-“

Tony stormed off stage, throwing the lectern over during his exit in true Stark fashion. 

Steve sighed. “Nothing ever goes right, does it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always super appreciated. I'd love to hear what you're thinking!


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